Impossible
by WordComposer
Summary: While one story begins, another one continues. The disappearance of a valued family member may be devastating, but the fate of humanity may prove to be more pressing in comparison, when determining the severity of both to the population of Earth.
1. Imaginary

She cried bitterly, although it did little to no good to help her situation. She was trapped, suffocating, her throat constricting not only because of her frantic sobs but because of the tiny space in which she had been snared. She was freezing, but she was too terrified to try and move and return circulation to her motionless limbs. It was perturbing enough, knowing that the leather underneath her was moving - breathing - with a life of its own. So she couldn't stand the idea of engendering a reaction from it. She kept perfectly still, despite the temperature.

It had been storming upon her capture. Pellets of water had struck the sidewalk she had been occupying, an army of endless droplets combating the stiff concrete separating her from the road of slick, hazardous asphalt. It had been dark, not as virtually black as the atmosphere engulfing her now, but the sort of night that harbored only natural electricity in the form of lightning instead of the kind generated by man. Noise was nonexistent; it had been early enough in the morning that no pedestrians crossed her path and no headlights illuminated the street beside her. In her cut off jean shorts and thick, over-sized T-shirt, she had jogged through the storm, not because of the overbearing need to exercise, she could have done this at any time during that day, but because she was finally drowning in the fears she normally happened to ignore or push away into the recesses of her bothered mind. Stress had torn its teeth deep into her flesh, ripping out and savagely devouring the happiness that had once dewed her skin and the carefree attitude that was once new and refreshing. The cold wind may have stung, the occasional piece of hail may have pricked, but she had welcomed the sheets of water splattering against her face; the rain had fed its appetite on the tears that had brimmed her eyes and that had rolled in trickling streams down her cheeks.

The depression had eventually been left behind as her tennis shoes collided, step after step, with the ground beneath her and carried her further from her misery, but while she had been running through the dead Massachusetts town, she had stopped ("Excuse me, miss?") for an out-of-state police officer asking for directions to the nearest gas station. He was so innocent, his dark eyes full of promise. He was so friendly, his thin lips and white smile so handsome. How could he have meant her wrong? Yet when she had bounced to a stop, smiling largely and calling out an affectionate greeting, that was when reality had shrieked to an ear-splitting halt.

Because although that fake man had been so good-looking, its puppet master had been the ugliest thing she would ever face.

She was losing breath - she sucked in oxygen to a point where she gave herself the hiccups, and it seemed only the insane need to scream bloody vengeance at her kidnapper was the needed medicine to soothe the constriction clasping her heart. But she dared not move her lips to do so, not even to lick their dry and chapped surface – even now, when she had come to terms with her fate, she was mortified of instilling a reaction from the beast.

Her skin prickled as a throaty growl erupted from the machine underneath her, causing her to flinch, but never cry out. Never did she cry out, noise reminded her captor that she was present; although she had long ago come to the conclusion that the monster was watching her, distinctively in tune with every slight movement she made.

Then suddenly, all noise ceased within the cabin. Whether it was some alien trick, or she had suddenly lost her hearing due to her desperation, she could not be sure.

But the monotonous voice that addressed her was perfectly legible.

"Caroline Jessica Witwicky, your given title, is it not?"

The dirty blonde shut her eyes tightly, trying to convince herself that the voice was imagined. That it was just a figment of her twisted, confused mind working at full throttle to find a solution as to who her kidnapper was, and it coming up with this terrible answer.

But she had seen it, and it was too late to try and lie to herself about what it was; she knew what that haunting voice belonged to.

It returned, its robotic tinge violating her ears with its harsh tone.

"Confirm that your title is Caroline Jessica Witwicky." It spoke with a dangerous purr, dark undertones promising that anything but the truth would be severely punished.

She nodded.

"You cannot even speak when spoken to: fragging incompetent, your entire race."

She wasn't sure if she was supposed to apologize for being the ancestor of a chimpanzee or if the voice was merely making a statement. Either way, the only response her body enabled her to reply with was fat tears and a shivering body. Long ago, when she had been thrust into its cabin, she had scrunched herself into a helpless ball and tried to hide her slim body in the shadows of the backseat. Despite her efforts of invisibility, the voice continued to pervade the thin air every few hours - no doubt only taking minimal time out of its personal time to make sure she was alive and had not died from fright.

The few words it had spoken at her would forever disturb her mind -

"Discard all electronic devices."

"Continue your sniveling, I dare you, human."

"Caroline Jessica Witwicky, your given title, is it not?"

Three simple sentences had begun a relationship of torment and abuse that would forever change the life she had never managed to get a handle on. She clasped her hands together as she summoned the strength to murmur a quick prayer to the God she rarely acknowledged. Maybe He would remember who she was and what good she had tried to contribute to the world when she had had the mental capability to try. She then practiced a few deep breathing exercises to try and calm and organize her scrambled emotions.

She stared at the dark ceiling of her captor as her swollen eyes sobered. She tried to return to the easy times of senior year in high school, trying to imagine she was in the bowels of a taxi. She wanted to get away for a while, that was all. She was headed to Vegas for an exciting and adventurous party weekend with those that meant everything to her. A single, left over tear slid down her pasty cheek, but it was residual, not a development of her sadness. Now, she shut her eyes and envisioned her closest friends surrounding her: hugging her, laughing merrily, singing joyous songs that had been cool back in those days but were now objected to becoming karaoke favorites. A flicker of a smile crossed her lips as her imagination took her to a happier place. Nothing was an issue in this comfort zone, not relationships, not lack of income, not even being kidnapped by a transforming monstrosity.

Carly breathed deeply, the scent of rain catching in her nostrils.

She opened her eyes to find that the vehicle had come to a halt, and its door was open. No longer was she surrounded by the familiar, inviting darkness of a state of mind that never failed to calm and love her whenever scared and lonesome; this darkness was much more sinister.

"Get out."

The young woman mentally added this sentence to the short list of spoken demands that had been uttered by her invisible captor. Muttering another sincere prayer, she carefully climbed from the back space, landed ungracefully on her ass in the driver's seat, then managed to fall into the only available puddle of mud for miles once she crawled out from the interior of the - _thing._ She felt another sob clutch at the vicinity of her throat: she swallowed the sadness and concentrated on standing and cleaning off the muck.

"You are all clumsy idiots."

She dared not look back at the car. The last time she had glanced at the slick, black surface, it had done a terrible, unthinkable deed. Maybe if she ignored it, it would be washed away, like chalk on a brick wall, in the light sprinkle that alighted from the heavens above.

But the steady, omnipresent grumble of the engine forced her into the reality of her situation.

The tears were welling into her eyes again, misting her vision until she managed to swipe the blurriness angrily away. She concentrated solely on cleaning her sore, battered eyes, even as the recognizable sound of the vehicle changing into the atrocity that had captured her collected in her ears. She closed her eyes, tracing her fingertips over the heavy, black bags underneath them, and fought to hear the laughter of happier times. She almost succeeded, until a hellish tint shown through the folds of her eyelids and she pried her gaze open.

She was face to face with the robot.

It bore down on her, glaring as if frustrated with her very existence. It examined her, everywhere, its eyes scanning over her frozen frame as it seemed to diagnose every mental and physical detail currently available. It raised a gnarled finger, its intense stare hypnotizing her into paralysis, and it seemed to debate something. Then it lowered its hand and snorted out a rush of air from hidden vents along its face.

"Caroline Jessica Witwicky."

"Y-Yeah." she sputtered dreamily, her eyes flitting along the interior of _its_ eyes. It was composed of thousands of microscopic sprockets that held together an enormous, illuminated lens that must have been the red pupil. As terrified as she was, the mechanical aspect of its composition was fascinating.

"Are you the kin to Samuel James Witwicky?"

"Y-Yeah." she answered once again, her head darting back and forth frantically from one eye to another. They were larger than average, but not enormous: she estimated that they were the size of two human eyes combined. Still, she wasn't sure which of them was supposed to have acquired her attention, as the head that harbored the set of lights made up the size of her entire upper body from neck to waist.

"Perfect." it murmured, a husky and sharp edge to its voice that made her spine tingle and her heartbeat quicken. It straightened - to a height that made her tilt her head backwards and breathe out in astonishment - and tinkered with an attachment to its chest. Suddenly, a blinding light shone out through a projector in its headlight, an unrecognizable image filtering through the glass and twinkling in the dark thunderheads above. Rushed, electrical squabbling pierced through the peaceful tune of falling rain as it appeared to send out a message to God only knew what.

With the beast's head aimed upwards, continuing to speak in its metallic, unrecognizable language, Carly, too, lifted her gaze to stare at the empty sky above. She was weak, anyways; the last thing she wanted to do was languish this experience with no guidance. Yet she had never felt so alone.

Suddenly, exhaustion washed over her with a suddenness that was mortifying and uncontrollable. Unaware of the damp environment awaiting her below, she fell to her knees and her head sagged to the ground. Weary from endless hours of fear and abuse, she fell into a soft sleep that enveloped her as graciously as the mud sucking her into its depths.

* * *

"_Soundwave, the human has been acquired."_

_"Are the Autobot's aware of its absence?"_

_"Not as of late."_

_"Keep it hidden. We will use it when we find it is necessary to openly confront our foes once more."_

_"Where do you suggest we reside until such a time that you find the Witwicky 'necessary'?"_

_"Provide for it quarters that will allow it to function with minimal assistance. Contact will be made when reinforcements arrive to help handle the situation."_

Soundwave must feel like a brilliant smartass, Barricade thought to himself. He felt the need to send "reinforcements" to "handle the situation"? It was a fragging organic child that was no longer in height than his arm and no wider than his claw. Before the interrogator could release two years' worth of unvented frustration on the sarcastic communications specialist, or even respond with a bitter confirmation, the Decepticon intelligence expert ended the transmission and, again, left Barricade alone on Earth with no resources, no means of contact, and no defense against their enemies other than his own ten sharpened digits.

The mech snarled and shut down the approximate nineteen thousand, one hundred and ninety-four-mile broadcast he had angled at the geosynchronous orbit, and glanced down at the human.

The girl was face down in slimy compost, oblivious to the world.

He was tempted to lower his foot onto its defenseless body and end all traces of trouble that would no doubt arise with caring for it. If such action were taken, he could always send the human's mangled body parts back to Optimus, and consecutively, the Witwicky boy.

A shadow of a smirk passed the Decepticon's scarred mouth as he mulled over this thought, but in the end, he knew better than to disobey an order from Soundwave. Not only was he higher ranking, rivaling Starscream's power, but his guile matched that of Megatron's ruthless strength, and even the police interceptor mentally cringed at the idea of upsetting the surreptitious satellite.

Barricade's jaw clenched and his fangs scrapped together heatedly as his frustration built upon the knowledge that he had no dealings in the affairs of the Decepticon faction. It was infuriating to do the grunt work of a simplistic drone when his intelligence contended with that of one of their Golden Age scientists. But he did not dwell too long on these self-pitiful thoughts; instead, he scooped Caroline Jessica Witwicky from the mud, rolled his optics skyward as it flopped uselessly upon his lethal claw, then headed in the direction of a neighborhood he had parked outside the vicinity of. He had foreseen the need to keep the girl, and had surmised it would require housing: now it was just a matter of depositing it somewhere relatively secluded from the outside world.


	2. Idiocy

**Author's Note: Look at me being a plagiarist. So instead of being sued, I'm going to give credit for a few of the sentences weaved into this Chapter to Mr. Simon Furman, who wrote Transformers: Nefarious, to which this story will be tied in with. Everyone reading this should pick up a copy, as it's a good read (with pretty colors!) and what I write here might make a wee bit more sense, especially if you're a reader that enjoys knowing the history of what's occurring in a story. Thank you everyone and I'll try not to distract you all with author's notes throughout this series!**

* * *

Six hours after flying to a rendezvous point in a section of the country that was kept classified by the United States, Sideswipe and Ironhide and the Twins, as well as the soldiers they had traveled with, returned to Autobot and NEST headquarters in Diego Garcia. With him, Sideswipe carried a motor home that had been part of the chaos of a revived and rogue Pretender – Alice, as Sam had properly titled her when Bumblebee had brought the situation to his attention. The carcass of the deceased Pretender was skewered to the back of the driver's seat, and thanks to direct orders from the Autobot's chief medical officer: she was not to be pestered with in fear of her body being harmed any further. She was to be used for study, and any parts that weren't already mutilated were hopefully salvageable. And Ratchet had a nasty habit of throwing sharp utensils when not listened to, so Sideswipe did not comment on taking along the obliterated motor vehicle.

Bumblebee, not having been at the scene when the female Cybertronian had almost rammed into a squadron of NEST warriors, had learned enough about the happenings to nonetheless be opinionative when his four comrades returned from the experience. The brusque Sideswipe, stubborn as ever, stood by his own views concerning the situation and what had occurred surrounding it and refused to budge. The argument that proceeded immediately grew heated.

"Two individuals are in serious mental condition and another poorly covered mission will soon be scrutinized for details by the American public due to the actions demonstrated by your reckless temper!"

"'Individuals'? That's a laugh. The human kind plagues this world's corners, square inch for square inch, and another pedestrian lacking the skill to look both ways before crossing a street and therefore stumbling into the resulting crossfire would not have made a difference and would have done his people a favor by lowering the teeming world population."

"Your emotion towards this world's people is vociferous in itself, but your actions are not excused because you remain unworried by an innocent creature "stumbling into the crossfire"."

"You give two flying frags about the condition of Earth's inhabitants merely because you found one to occupy your time as a pet and you would feel guilty if one of its friends was injured in a war it has no right to include itself, or any of its brethren, in."

It was only because Ratchet intervened that the remnants of the destroyed motor home were not tossed aside and the two warriors did not lunge for the other's spark. The CMO pushed himself between the confrontation, which had brought the Camaro and Corvette's chests together as they stood toe to toe.

"—that is quite enough from the both of you!" the medical officer barked as Sideswipe and Bumblebee glared at each other from past the physical interference of their referee, "You are unsettling our team members and insulting Optimus. The NEST team responded to the distress signal efficiently and effectively, and not another word is to be spoken on the matter."

"Humans were endangered." Bumblebee crackled defiantly.

"They were endangered, anyways, before we arrived, half-sparked wit. The female was more of a threat to the population's lives then we were in protecting them." The Corvette snorted back. Before more harsh words could be exchanged, Ratchet took Bumblebee by the shoulder and directed him towards a thin, but tall, corridor attached to the main communications hangar.

"Samuel was searching for you. He is awaiting your arrival in room 3056 B. It would seem that something of importance has occurred."

"He has not spoken to any of the others of his distress?"

"He has announced that the information he has obtained is to be passed on to you, alone, before anyone learns of the origins of his distressed state."

At the mention of his charge's strange secrecy, Bumblebee completely forgot his powerful urge to dismantle his Autobot comrade and hustled down the hallway to the fore mentioned room.

Ratchet turned to the fuming Sideswipe. "Beware your pride." He stated before turning towards the main body of the assembled NEST forces, who were discussing at length what had transpired in the evening hours previous to their return. Sideswipe grunted and crossed his arms, still miffed from the exchange with the overconfident Camaro. Skids and Mudflap did not fail in presenting themselves to the Corvette at the most inopportune of moments.

"'Bee was way outta line, man," Skids piped up, "We were there, right Mudflap?"

"Sure thing, dog!" was the response of his kin.

"We know you were all good; bitch had to be taken out – know what I'm sayin'? - before some serious business went down. Right, Mudflap?"

"Sure thing, dog!" Mudflap repeated.

"I say we go celebrate with some high grade." Skids suggested cheekily. "They started funneling some raw energy stuff from underground or somethin', it ain't Cybertron good, but _damn _it's close! Now all we need are some strippers and some of them party hats and ya'll about to experience the _definition _of a good time!"

Sideswipe reached a great achievement that day. He refrained from killing the Chevy Beat and Trax the moment they approached him with their unintelligent slang and offensive idiocy.

"Ninety-nine cubes of 'gon on the wall, ninety-nine cubes of Energon!" Mudflap sang merrily, a disgusting hop to his step, as he and Skids skipped off down an adjoining tunnel to where the recreation room for the Autobot's awaited their tomfoolery.

Sideswipe, too, lost steam to fuel his anger originally enticed from the quarrel with Bumblebee, and all for the better, for soon the Autobot's would not be able to afford uncertainty and ill feelings within their ranks. Soundwave, watching above and replacing the role of the omnipresent God the humans mindlessly worshipped, studied and analyzed and concluded billions of gigabytes of data per second. Through this method of conquering, those below him would soon realize, too late, his influence through the technology the fleshling's solely depended upon.

For what _The Fallen_ had attempted to achieve by force, he would have soon achieved by stealth. And by the time _Megatron_ returned from licking his wounds…

Earth would _already_ have been conquered.

* * *

She awoke on a comfortable, feather-stuffed pillow, nestled in-between cool sheets and a warm, cozy quilt. She rolled over in bed, blissfully unaware of several facts: this was not her bed, this was not her room, and harrowing, red lights filtered in through the window occupying the west wall that faced the outside world; the steady stream of unnatural illumination unmoving, and ever watchful.

After several more hours of sleep, she finally blinked open her eyes and stretched tiredly. Despite creepy, reoccurring dreams, she had slept considerably well, and felt rested and refueled for a new day. She let forth another lazy yawn, cracking her strangely tense back and scratching the top of her sleep-matted skull. The sun must have not risen from beyond the horizon, not because the bedroom was dark, but because her brain had not yet awoken to put her back in the ugly situation her last name had misplaced her in.

She grunted as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and hopped up from off the bed. She turned and saw the gleaming pair of crimson LED's staring at her from an open window.

Everything – her kidnapping, its robotic form, the puddle of mud she had previously fallen asleep in – registered.

For the first time since she had come into contact with this disturbing creature, she reacted to its horrible features by screaming audibly. Her feet shuffled backwards, draining static electricity from the carpet under her bare toes, and _screamed _for someone, something, anyone, _anything, _to save her. The pleas for help did not last long, however, as a hand flew to her mouth and restricted her lips from uttering so much as a squeak.

"I am going to say this once," a familiar, deep voice murmured into her ear, causing her to cringe and whimper as it finished, "Be quiet or die."

Carly honestly didn't see many other options when this demand was spoken. She nodded her agreement to this proposition enthusiastically, and she was released. As soon as freedom was granted, she hustled backwards out of reach of the stranger and bashed her leg into a nightstand, engendering a stream of colorful curses from her mouth.

Barricade shuttered his optics as if to roll them, in an obvious sign of annoyance, wishing some sudden deathly illness would befall the human so he could find a less ignorant captive in which to spend the next couple of cycles with.

"It is a hologram." he barked impatiently, before he could control the pitch of his volume. Luckily, he needn't have worried about any snooping neighbors, as there was not currently an occupied home within a ten mile radius of the human's residence. These suburban mansions were reserved for nice weather, and since it was late December and the highest temperature available was a sizzling twenty degrees Celsius, most of the wealthy had migrated to the Midwest for the winter. But he had spent enough time on Earth to be severely cautious of parading around on two legs, and he had established the angle in which his hologram's projector would need to be situated for it to display properly and stabilize correctly. So, to be safe, he transformed out of his bipedal form and returned to the four wheel alternative mode he was disguised with now that the young woman was mobile. He proceeded to use his realistic hologram from inside the household to communicate with the Witwicky.

"You are a prisoner," he began to explain, even as she stared, bug-eyed, at the fake image he had surprisingly bothered to produce in order to reduce the noise level that would have resulted from interacting with his Cybertronian self. He was weak, although he never would have admitted to this fact; and screaming and shouting and wailing and yelling, all reactions that accompanied his true form, were not ideal for his fragile audio receptors.

"W-What are you?" she whispered, staring into the soulless black eyes a couple of feet away.

"What you are currently speaking to is a hologram, as I seem to remember already having explained; if you look outside of the window, you will in fact find that _I _have taken position outside."

She didn't bother to look at the sleek police interceptor sitting below. Instead, she mustered up every ounce of courage within her raging emotions, straightened to a reasonably proud height (with her white knuckles clutching the edge of the nightstand for physical and moral support), and declared: "If you're a kidnapper, and if I'm a prisoner, then I get an explanation as to why I'm kidnap-worthy." The only reason she was able to speak an entire sentence was because the hologram was at her level of evolution; it was still intimidating, and had better posture, but it was human, and less freakish then the appearance of her actual captor.

Barricade snorted at the pretense of bravery it tried to show, but made sure not to transfer the sound through his image and make it appear as if it had bullied a response out of him. Instead, he spoke deliberately slowly as he started afresh.

"You are to remain in this household until such a time when you are needed. All electronics have been disabled and you are to have no outside contact with your race. I will never leave my post: I will always be watching you. If you dare to try and escape, you will be shot on the spot. If you are to retain any information out of my instructions, let it be the knowledge that you are not worth the trouble of keeping alive if you disobey me. Have I made myself clear?"

When her apathy was the response to his explanation, the hologram disappeared immediately and Barricade settled down onto his worn shocks to rest.

Carly released the pent up oxygen in her lungs that she only now realized she had been withholding with anticipation. She collapsed onto the bed and lay there for a couple minutes. A couple of minutes turned into half an hour. Thirty minutes increased to several hours. All the while as time passed, hundreds of questions were mulled over through her mind at a rate that was most likely dangerous to her health. At times she felt hungry, but the hunger pains gave way to her growing curiosity. At times she felt as if she was to be sick, but her illness relinquished its severity to drowsiness. At times she felt as if another good, hard cry was in order, but the sorrow submitted to needing to relieve her bladder. And this was not a bodily function she could easily ignore as she had with the others that had been, at one point, displayed.

The only problem with using the restroom was that her every move was being watched. Did that mean that robot – her guard – was so determined to follow through on its proposal that it could even be around when she was peeing?

She groaned and slammed her head into a pillow, trying to decide what to do. Time was running out. If she didn't go soon, then she was going to have to clean a wet bed, and she had no idea if there was a washer and dryer installed in the hell hole she had been dumped into.

Finally, she stood and snuck over to the glass window. On ground level, one story below her bedroom, the Saleen had its bumper in her direction and sat as still, as lifeless and harmless, as any regular car would be. She narrowed her eyes when she saw one of the quarter panels twitching. It could have been a trick of the light, but Carly found it more likely that it was a motion implied to scare the piss out of her.

She discontinued that train of thought as her pelvis muscles tightened and she did a little dance to stop the inevitable from occurring. She grew angry. She had rights, damn it! She was American, wasn't she? Even soldiers in Iraq would let their Muslim prisoners take a leak, right? And as she solemnly agreed with these patriotic thoughts, she threw caution to the wind and padded across the upstairs floor to fling open the bathroom door.

* * *

When Carly reappeared several minutes later, she nearly bumped into Barricade's hologram as it awaited her outside the lavatory.

"Groceries have been provided." it said emotionlessly, blinking out of existence as soon as its intended purpose was fulfilled. She just stared ahead, a single thought haunting her mind: _had it been watching her the entire time? _She made a mental note then and there that she would only drink fluids at the most necessary of times.

With an involuntary look of disgust at the possibility of her privacy being so blatantly violated, she found and descended a slim, lengthy ladder that led into a wooden hallway, prickles of ice stabbing into her exposed and unprepared feet as they met the colder floor. Symbols of wealth were plastered over the walls, with eye-catching artwork and expensive trinkets being the main attractions. It suddenly registered in Carly's gradually adapting brain that this was not a place of residence she was familiar with. This was the sort of house she fantasized about when reading Home Improvement magazines; this wasn't somewhere where she would call home.

But the young woman reminded herself that this was a prison, not anything remotely resembling a house, and especially not a home. Yet the decorating alone gave the illusion of beauty and tranquility with its sheer size and grandeur. Carly exited the hallway into a lavish dining area, where a shining maple table with a crystal centerpiece presented itself. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her empty stomach, a sense of anxiety that was usually second rate to her but was now endlessly bothering, she creaked open a door to what she supposed was the kitchen. It was an empty pantry. She tampered with the handle of the next door, and when it turned, all she met were thick, fur coats. She heaved open the entrance consecutive to the second, and found another, but fully stocked, pantry. She kept this in mind, but was exasperated with the hunt for the kitchen, so slammed the cache closed. She tried the swinging door next to it, and came to face a glorious, marble imbedded room that could only have been properly described as a professional chef's wet dreams. Stainless steel composed every appliance imaginable upon the sparkling countertops; dark, wooden drawers and cabinets blended flawlessly into the interior of the kitchen to create a cool, crisp atmosphere.

Where _was she?_

The closest she had come to this sort of sophistication at her apartment was when she brought back Olive Garden leftovers. Then Carly remembered her captor mentioning "groceries", and being led forward by the desperate growling of her stomach, entered the wondrous room.

Right smack dab in the middle of the slick island was a cardboard box, full to the brim with various junk foods that only an obese teenager would have loved to shove in their face. Carly, on the other hand, weighed one hundred and thirty five pounds respectively and was a girl who chose dieting over desserts. Therefore she was only able to keep her previous look of disgust plastered on her unwashed features.

"Does there seem to be a problem?"

The prisoner jumped as if hot coals had been thrown down the back of her ruffled, wrinkled shirt and whirled around so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash. Those all-knowing, black eyes of the hologram she knew she was going to come to despise were staring at her with a look she knew she already despised.

"You can't go around scaring me like that." she murmured, although none too valiantly. "And there's not really a problem, it's just…"

"Yes?" Barricade asked with a fake sweetness that was almost as scary as his usual sourness.

"That's a lot of unhealthy food."

"I apologize; I was under the impression that you would require and intake _any_ sort of food. I assumed you weren't going to be _picky _considering the circumstances."

Carly shrugged and took a few steps back, towards the island harboring the means of destruction for her Size 7 figure. "I know you're a giant robot from…well, wherever…" she began in what she thought was a polite, but was probably slightly sarcastic, tone, "But just because you get to load up on gasoline doesn't mean I should have to eat this artery clogging shit."

"So what do you propose I do about your highly _gruesome_ predicament?" Barricade asked mockingly, as if he would sacrifice his life to know what the opinion of the fleshbag was. If it had to clog an artery to survive under his supervision, then it should have been damn happy to die of an internal health related reason as opposed to being announced deceased while being scrapped off the bottom of his foot.

"H-Healthier foods?" Carly tried charmingly.

The hologram snorted and vanished.

"Great conversation, asshole." she snapped, rolling her eyes and folding her arms in front of her irritably. She crossed the spotless tile and opened the refrigerator. Several seconds after discovering the refrigerator was a stove, she found the actual food container and peered inside at its bowels. Apparently, whoever had been residing there hadn't seen it fit to clean out the remainders of their food. There wasn't much, but it was fresh, and the contents of the fridge appeared enough to last her several weeks, if properly rationed, or perhaps enough time to convince the grumpy robot that not all humans digested garbage.

She just then realized that she needed to plan on staying here for weeks – maybe months – or, at least for a long period of time. She groaned at the idea. It was her first day with her guard, and she had only gotten as far in this relationship to make them both complete enemies of one another. She rested her forehead on the chilled metal of the storage unit, taking in several deep breaths.

Carly decided that if she was going to ever exist outside the role of "prisoner", she was going to need to find a way to make herself useful to the giant, or at least make an attempt at being friendlier. Maybe learning its name would be an appropriate place to start.


	3. Innocence

Sam was staring at the ceiling of the Autobot interactional facility, which consisted of a lobby-like setting atop one of the metal hangars that rose to meet the ceiling of the secret base. There were two levels: the top and the bottom. The bottom was adjacent to most seated Cybertronian's, while the one far above it hovered level with a standing one. The tallest floor was where Sam sat with both Mikaela and Leo seated at his sides for comfort. But guilt still kept him silent, even as his girlfriend clutched his hand reassuringly.

"Sam, it's alright. We're going to find her," she said softly, leaning onto his shoulder to snuggle her head under his chin. "If she were dead, we would have known by now."

"So I'm supposed to be relieved that instead she's in the hands of the Decepticons?" Sam snapped, stooping forward and dropping his head into his hands. "Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot. Of course they'd go after family. They went after my parents in Egypt; why wouldn't they target other relatives?"

"Man, don't worry about it; she's probably seducing her kidnapper now."

"Why the hell would that make me feel better, Leo?" Sam requested helplessly.

"Well if she tricks 'em then she can run like one of my people hoppin' the border, know what I'm saying? Bolt on home to the Autobot's and away from the scary planet-wreckers, comprende?"

Mikaela shot Leo an aggravated look, and for once, he took the hint and quieted down to let his friend grieve. Sam groaned and shook his head back and forth, unable to fathom the sort of emotional and physical damage his beloved cousin must have been going through. "Anyone with the Witwicky name has to go into hiding," he mumbled from in-between his fingers, "Because of me. I was too stupid to even think of that earlier. I killed my own cousin because of a stupid last name. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid." Sam punched the couch cushion beneath him with each curse.

For a second there was silence throughout the group. "At least your last name ain't Smith; half the wasp population of America would have had to go underground, right?" Leo then chirped in an effort to lighten the mood.

Instead, Mikaela reached behind her boyfriend and punched the Latino in the shoulder harshly. He flew back away from the pain of the hit and muttered an expletive as he nursed his injured arm a safe distance away from the peeved young woman.

"What am I going to tell her friends? What am I going to tell her mom? What am I going to tell _my _mom?"

"_Don't worry, about a thing - 'cause every little thing, is gonna be alright._"

Three heads turned to see Bumblebee standing next to the steel platform, his armor lightly reflecting in the dim bulbs overhead. Fresh scratches and gouges were evident on his frame, and his antennas were plastered down to his helmet when they were usually prepped up with childish excitement; excitement for what, no one knew, but seeing them pulled back was different enough to be eerie.

"What's up?" Sam inquired, motioning at the Autobot's wounds.

Using his scratchy, but repaired, voice modulator, the yellow mech explained, "Kingdom Petrochemicals. Captain Lennox received satellite confirmation of Decepticon activity prior to contact in West Miami. We converged on location to handle the situation."

"How did it go?" Mikaela said with a bright grin.

"The situation was nothing Knock Out couldn't take care of." the Camaro responded, one of his gleaming blue optics shuttering off and on rapidly to imitate a wink. He didn't mention that Breakaway had given his spark to Soundwave when attempting to engage the powerful Decepticon. He didn't add how Jolt's electrical sobs had pierced through the chaos of the battle when their airborne comrade exploded in a flame-ridden mass of smelted metal and gory fluids. He also failed to clarify about the unknown human entity that had been situated at the secluded site in Florida, and that they had appeared to be the reason for Soundwave and his minions' hostile intentions and the death of their friend.

"Yeah, yeah, Decepti-butt got kicked and everything's right with the world; but did you find out anything else?" Leo asked, bouncing around and sprawling on the sofas back, his chin resting on his crossed arms. As if to explain what his underlying meaning was, the teenager twitched his head in the direction of the somber Witwicky and pantomimed sobbing obnoxiously, then motioned to himself and rolled his eyes drastically.

Bumblebee sobered immediately, shifting in an ashamed manner that spoke of hours of self-abuse before he had come to find the children and share the forthcoming news. "Carly is being held captive by Barricade."

"No." Sam moaned, sliding back into his seat and slamming his head into the back cushion.

Bumblebee maintained a blank countenance that suggested he had known for a while what had happened to Samuel's relative. "To our knowledge, he was the only remaining Decepticon inhabiting Earth. Assuming this, he is receiving instructions from Soundwave. Whether the pair are hiding together or are separated remains unseen. Since he was absent during the rise of The Fallen, we thought he might have been considering surrender. Yet he has decided to show himself, and under such circumstances, so he is considered a threat and will be immediately disposed of." The Camaro didn't disclose how he knew this. He didn't add that pattern-recognition software upgraded for NEST by his people had discovered a faint, then nonexistent, spark signature on the outskirts of Massachusetts. Bumblebee had no doubt in his mind that the missing police interceptor was responsible when, scavenging through family records, he saw the residence of Caroline Jessica Witwicky occupied a city in the same state.

"That sounds good to me, s'long as he ends up dead." Leo agreed. "Now what's a home boy got to do to get some tacos around here?"

Mikaela rolled her eyes, and deciding that there was nothing else that could be done for her boyfriend on her part, stood and walked over to their other friend. "Come on, "home boy", let's go get some food." she suggested roughly, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and pulling him towards the door without waiting to see his opinion on their departure. Bumblebee's optics flashed with nostalgic warmth as he watched Mikaela return his wink and exit, with Leo in tow. Nostalgia for simplicity within the relationship the humans shared; nostalgia for times when his relationship with the boy had been just as simple. Sam hadn't moved from his spot, and when Bumblebee approached, his eyes seemed to have glazed over from shock and disappointment.

The Autobot released a hiss of oxygen from his vents loudly, making sure to inform Sam of his advancing hand and not scare him. He lightly plucked his charge from his seat (with a childish yelp escaping his mouth, despite Bumblebee's warning) and placed him gently on the bottom level of the layered hangar. He carefully pushed a coffee table out of his way and maneuvered his friend onto a plump, leather couch behind it. His back arched low, keeping a respectable distance from Sam so as not to seem like he was trying to intimidate him, Bumblebee lowered his body onto the cement multiple feet beneath the metal grate floor. He was still noticeably taller, but not as dramatically as he usually was. His tone was soft when he began to console Sam. "This is not your fault. Please understand that."

Witwicky didn't speak, and instead shut his eyes, apparently finished with his mild surprise at being man-handled.

The Camaro continued: "You know, as well as I, that Barricade never had intentions of surrender. Still, I let him be and hoped the best would result from allowing him a small amount of freedom and attempting to show him the pros of peace. Obviously, he took advantage of my pity. For my ignorance, I apologize."

"Shut up, 'Bee." Sam growled under his breath, "Don't you dare blame yourself. We both have seen what that freak is capable of: I was kidnapped too, remember, once upon a time? I just hate that we brushed him aside." The boy sat up and intertwined his fingers, setting the balled hands into his lap and looking up morosely at his friend, "We're not very smart, are we?"

"I can agree with that." Bumblebee said, setting his monstrous digit lightly on his charge's head. He ruffled Sam's hair gently and enjoyed the silence for a few moments. He saw the pained expression on the boy's face and asked, "Caroline means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

A pause ensued. "She didn't have a family growing up." He whispered. "So when she visited, we treated her like _our _family. She's my sister, Bumblebee. Maybe not by blood, but damn it, I love that woman as if she was. I'd fight Barricade myself if it meant getting her back."

"Perhaps you should let me handle the violence." Bumblebee added, removing his hand and setting both limbs down on each of his crossed legs. Sam chuckled and nodded, his head reconnecting with the headrest of the couch. With a wide, silly smile only he was capable of producing during such a traumatizing period, Witwicky roared, "That son of a bitch almost made me a pancake with a car crusher, Bumblebee! Then Mr. Badass doesn't even have the common courtesy to let me say something heroic and cool before I die: instead he makes me scream like a five year old and piss my pants. Simultaneously. Then he kidnaps my favorite cousin, and is probably using her for soccer practice just so that if and when we find her, he can hand her over as a vegetable and _ha, ha, ha _right in my beautifully sculpted face. Excuse me for being LadiesMan217, right? If you hate someone's username that much, send an angry letter, or cuss them out, but talk about needing anger management."

Bumblebee was practicing severe anger management himself as Sam described, humorously, the horrors he had experienced thus far in a war that shouldn't have had to involved him. If only the boy knew that Barricade took such delight in harming him because of his rivalry with the guardian.

"…Bumblebee?"

The Autobot snapped to attention and focused intently on the boy. "Yes, Sam?"

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"I am fine, thank you, why do you ask?"

"Because your eyes just turned a creepy white color and I was hoping they could go back to blue, no offense."

Bumblebee checked his internal readings and saw his optical lens temperature was a sizzling three hundred and fifty-two degrees Celsius. He deployed freezing nitrogen particles into the microscopic entrance to his 'eye' and waited until they had decreased to room temperature before speaking once more.

"Actually, I do want to speak with you about a matter." He paused, gleaning his thoughts. Male's not easily sharing their feelings seemed to be a universal curse. "I hope you know I would die to defend you, Sam." he eventually said, deathly serious.

"Y-Yeah." Witwicky replied, taken aback. "I hope you know I don't want you to, though."

Bumblebee tilted his helm downwards in a nodding motion, declaring, "Sacrifice is sometimes, unfortunately, necessary for a cause you believe in. Optimus became a martyr for his love for your people, as perhaps I one day will as well. But I may not be revived as Optimus was. Should the time come for my untimely death, I want you to know a fact, no matter what happens."

Samuel nodded back, mesmerized by his friends intense speech.

"When Caroline's location is found, I will personally rescue her; for you, Sam. And for all you have been through, I will either kill Barricade or die trying. Now I want you to promise me something," Bumblebee interrupted as Sam went to intercept his saddening words.

"Bumblebee—"

"My friend, please, you must promise me something."

Water threatened to leak from the ridges of the boy's eyes, but he managed to stay quiet and allow his friend to finish.

"Promise me you will let me defend you and your loved ones; Mikaela, Leonardo, and especially your relatives."

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Sam didn't respond. He loved Bumblebee as much as Mikaela and Leo and his relatives: he wished all of them could stay safe from the might of the Decepticons. But that was unrealistic thinking. Realization accompanied grief and guilt that came from the kidnapping of Carly. He knew he owed it to those incapable of self-preservation against this threat to provide protection.

"Alright, 'Bee," Sam, with a withered composition that surpassed his age and added years to one so young, replied. "I promise."

**

* * *

**

Carly cautiously began to peel away her shirt, glancing back at the window facing the outside world. She had pulled the thick curtains over the glass pane, but she had a strong feeling that a piece of fabric could easily be bypassed by the alien's advanced vision. She had just worked up the bravery to unhook her bra's clasp when she glanced over her shoulder one last time and her eyes connected with the holograms.

"Holy shit!" she wailed in astonished horror, throwing her nearly nude body at the comforter of her acquired berth and covering her exposed chest with the blanket lying atop its surface. "What the hell? Why can't you tell me when you're going to pop up out of nowhere?"

"Shit…" he repeated, lingering as he seemed to test the word, when in fact he was recalling the language she had resorted to previously that first morning in the kitchen. It was almost comical hearing it utter the timid curse, but she wouldn't have thought so if she had known her captor was comparing the sentient race inhabitaing this planet to the vulgar noun. "Such an upstanding _lady _you have been raised to be." he added, as an afterthought.

"Oh, like _you _would be considered a 'gentleman'!" She barked with a murderous (_if looks could kill_—_) _gaze. She didn't appreciate being constantly snuck up on, especially when she was paranoid in the first place. Her temper arose from hearing this thing speak - even in simple passing - of those who had brought her up as a toddler.

The hologram, which was obviously uninterested with her family roots and the feelings attached to them, stepped forward with its eyes bearing down below her neckline.

"May I help you?" she snapped, averting its gaze upwards.

He rolled his eyes, the first small sign of emotion ever having been presented through the fake image, and reached for its collar bone.

She slapped it hard across the face, an action she quickly regretted as its hand shot forward and wrapped around her throat. Barricade had felt little more than a prick through the nerve endings produced from and attached to his true form, and was not infuriated by the pathetic excuse for 'pain' it had intended for him. He was reacting to the open display of defiance by its attack.

She was frozen now, and could only watch helplessly as it leaned into her with an evil smirk. She thought of risking her life just for the satisfaction of watching that horrific expression be wiped clean with another slap of her hand.

"Stupid human." He growled, reaching again for its breasts with minimal struggle. With a gentleness that should have been foreign to such a rough mech, he removed Caroline's jewelry from off its bare skin (_too fragile, no protection, unaffected by war—_) and cradled it between his fingers. He stared long and hard at the tiny, cut stone, soaking in the symbol.

The object strung to the thin silver chain encasing her slender throat was a cube. Oh, how fate mocked his existence with constant reminders of a task he had so unquestionably failed at.

She honestly didn't know what it was trying to accomplish by approaching her like this, but she was cold, naked, and fighting an upset stomach due to the crap she had had to eat for "dinner" since she hadn't been able to cook, upon finding that the utensils available in the kitchen were a complete conundrum.

"Can I put something on, or were you planning on grabbing anything else?"

Barricade raised a holographic eyebrow, and then disappeared. She ran into the bathroom and grabbed a slippery, silky bathrobe before he could come back and sexually harass her some more. She flung her medium-length hair back over her shoulders and adjusted the strap on the clothing, pausing as her gleaming necklace flashed in the light illuminating the tiled room. A Christmas present, a peculiar one, but not so peculiar that it should have garnered the attention of her guard…

She didn't realize she was crying until several tears tickled the smooth skin of her cheek. She sighed and tucked the cube into the robe's front slit for protection, passing her palm impatiently over her red eyes as if to banish her unexplainable sadness. Maybe it was the memory of that holiday morning, not so long ago, that aroused her unhappiness. She clearly remembered Sam pressing her delicate necklace into her hand, with all the love and tenderness only a rare, childhood friend could muster.

Now the silver piece was tainted, touched by the hand of that – _freak _– that had taken away her life. Why? For what purpose had she been stolen and locked away?

Her breathing grew quick and shallow as she lost control of her disposition. What had she done to deserve this? What tremendous crime did she commit that she must be thrown away so carelessly into a pit of isolation?

She vaguely bethought of her earlier recognition of befriending it. Of coming to terms with it to make her imprisonment less terrible - but how could she? How could she ever think of anything but that rough hand seizing her precious gift from Sam and staring at it with such disdain? Something so special, so holy to her - and it tossed it around as if that cube were mere decoration.

Her eyelids scrunched together violently and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep her pained shrieks from echoing down to her captor. It would not receive the gratification of hearing her misery. It would enjoy it too much.

Why should she hide how she felt about this situation? Why should she fear _it_? Why should she prolong the death it no doubt had in store for her in the near future?

Her hand fell to her side, joining its limp twin, and her eyes opened, wide and unblinking. There was a brusque calm, the predecessor of a vicious storm that would eradicate and supersede the small repository of innocence she had hidden away in order to relish in the smaller enjoyments of her troubled life. Then, just as suddenly as she had been rendered motionless, a ruthless anger bubbled up from the depths of her undiscovered brute, raw energy that had resided and simmered below the surface of her slim film of sanity encasing her heart.

She walked to the nightstand she had, several hours previous, bumped into. A lamp sat upon the smooth, wooden surface. She picked it up by the neck, wrenched it from the electrical socket housing its means of electricity, and threw it against the wall opposite her bed. The piece of furniture shattered upon impact.

Damn, that felt good.

A voracious hunger dispensed all ordinariness within her, and she wanted to continue breaking. She wanted to hear the carnage of split glass and cracked wood; she did. She wanted to get her hands wrapped around all available objects, luxuriate in the sight of normalcy being decapitated with every flick of her wrist; she did. She wanted to watch as, bit by bit, the entire room become the outcome of the frustration and hate she had quickly developed for her kidnapper; she did. Soon, nothing remained that hadn't been affected by her rampage of sorrow. She fell to her knees, numb to the cuts received from the sharp remnants of her berserk craze. She stared at what was left of the room, her pupils enlarged but lacking sight.

Two orbs of blood inspected her (_loss of all hope—_) from outside, and when she found them with her own disturbed gaze, she slowly got to her feet and faced it.

She laughed hysterically. Her laughter transformed into desperate sobs. She fell to her knees again, beseeching to the behemoth, "Just kill me. Just kill me."

She continuously murmured this plea, never removing her glistening eyes from those alien ones.

"Just kill me. Just kill me."

The repetition was haunting, the magnitude of her request chilling.

"Just kill me. Please, kill me."

The only thought crossing Barricade's thoughts during this entire escapade was how decent it was for the human to trash the room, so that when its owners returned, it would appear as if a simple break-in had been the purpose of their household.

"Kill me!"

A memory crossed through the processor of the uncaring Decepticon. Hadn't a particular rival of his once begged for death? Hadn't that mech lost the meaning of his life, and thus implored the end of it, not caring whether it be slow or quick? With that memory being his sole motivation, a single, curved digit entered the room through the window. The very tip perched under the human's chin, lifting its helm off its owner's chest and raising it so Caroline would once again meet his optics.

"Killing you would be too simple." Barricade explained.


	4. Impaired

**Author's Note: Thank you guys for the support thus far, I hope to see all of you here with me until the very end :)**

* * *

All she could smell was the stench of three days of sweat and fear and rage permeating the air.

Carly pried her eyes open, took a single sniff of the gases stewing under the sheets where she slept, and her nose cringed in protest. She swung the covers off and decided a nice, hot shower was in order.

She prudently tip-toed her way through the wreckage from the evening previous ("Did I actually do this?" she thought, horrified) and stepped onto the untouched tile of the restroom.

She shrugged off the robe that she had commended the decency of her body with. She couldn't, for the life of her, remember having kept it on after falling asleep. In fact, she did not recall even having made it to the bed. She swore she had finally laid her head unto the trash-strewn ground upon giving up hope for an easy death. But she had been such a mess that the simple act of remaining in the silk dressing gown as well as crawling into the berth could have easily surpassed her memory.

Carly disregarded her mind, which insisted that the reason it did not remember coming to be on the soft sheets was because it was not with its willpower that it performed the action of placing her there. She twisted the hot water handle so the delicious warmth came, first awkwardly spewing, and then pouring down in a steady stream. She adjusted the temperature so it wouldn't scald her, then stepped prudently over the short wall of the tub and slid underneath the pleasure of the shower head. She had never needed something as much as she had needed this bathe. Dirt and grime and fret were all washed ruthlessly off her body and swirled, never to be longed for except by the filth of awaiting sewage pipes, into the drain. She ran her fingers repeatedly through her wet locks, occasionally swiping away a thread of hair that had shed due to the past day's frustration.

Carly's back knelt against the spotless tile of the steaming shower wall as she nestled her knotted shoulders and neck under the nozzle. She had no ideas as to what was in store for her this morning.

"Killing you would be too simple."

So it was not difficult to surmise the torture her captor had in mind for her. It was doing a damn fine job of it so far. Despite the unceasing rhythm of hot water pellets drumming against her toned back, a chill crept along the length of her spine. Carly could not avoid the question any longer: why was this happening to her? She only had a single clue. Her necklace had attracted its attention. The silver, miniscule cube should have meant nothing, yet it clearly held some form of interest with it. But even this sliver of information meant nothing of importance to her. She made a mental list of facts about the jewelry: it was a Christmas present. It was a gift from the Witwicky clan. It was claimed to have been forged from pure silver.

Maybe the transforming freak had an obsession with shiny objects?

She massaged the tension out of her face, shutting her eyes and shaking her head. She was obviously following a dead lead. She discontinued her train of thought as she involuntarily lingered on the word "dead". That was an all-too realistic scenario she wanted to avoid for the moment. Well, Caroline added bitterly, death is probably going to be its last resort. It had made itself clear that it wanted to toy with its prisoner before mercifully releasing it from the world of the living.

Perhaps she had used all of them of up during her crazed tantrum last night, or maybe her body did not have the capability of producing anymore, but no tears were formed at the idea of further abuse. In fact, she weirdly relished the idea of continued torment. She would show it that she was an unbreakable, proud, strong woman. She was a Witwicky, damn it! She squeaked the water off, reaching for a neatly folded towel on a shelf outside the tub, then wrapping the thick cloth around her dripping body and taking the couple of steps to the round mirror above the sink to inspect her image. That meant something, right? She was smart, and brave—

And then an unrecognizable robot – smaller, brighter in color, yes, but not her captor – tumbled through the wall facing the backside of the house. Carly screamed, higher pitched then she would have thought possible under normal circumstances, and threw herself against the portion of floor that still composed the upstairs WC room. She desperately clutched the remaining standing wall separating the bathroom from the master's bedroom, returning her bug-eyed gaze to the blank stare of the red Honda that had just inserted itself into her life; and had rudely replaced the floor of the second story. She crossed brave off the list of her personal traits as she realized she was still screaming.

* * *

A mere twenty-four hour period, and mindless _shells _had discovered his hiding place. 53% full protective armor capacity, 19.3% available artillery usage, and the remaining percentages were not much more promising. This was after rebooting his systems and flushing any bugs or viruses that may have found his Energon lines a suitable food source; so he knew for a fact that fuel cells were not being drained by parasites. A mere twenty-four period, and that was all the good the rest had been able to do for him before he was dragged back into the battlefield for another go-about with the Autobot's. Typical.

There were four targets lasting from the five that had attacked. The first had gone when it had decided to begin the confrontation with a swift – and useless – kick to the door panel of the recharging Decepticon. Bad move on its part, evidently, as Barricade was not a happy camper when having been woken up to the current circumstance.

The spoken-of Saleen roared and snapped his fangs at one of the drones that had shoved him into the broad side of the house, his quad optics swerving from side to side to quickly inspect each of his enemy's. A deep growl wordlessly demonstrated his feelings towards his various opponents, who had apparently developed enough battle strategy to realize encircling their prey reduced chances of escape for both parties. To solve his uncomfortable position, the police interceptor slung his ion blaster from its shielded compartment and fired several rounds at the four nameless spies.

He was greeted with a cheeky warning of 14.7% of left-over artillery.

One fell, unprepared for the assault. A blue Ford pick-up stooped and rolled out of the oncoming shots, but his end came by the Decepticon's claw as Barricade caught him after his completed defense maneuver and snapped his chest into two pieces.

Filing away the flash of red in the corner of his vision promising damage to his strained hydraulics, the Decepticon faced the remaining two incompetent drones – a red Honda and a yellow Chevelle.

"Come on then!" he thundered at the pair, who hesitated as the vicious Saleen stooped into a defensive position. The red one raised its meager fists in response, but the Chevelle merely stood, glued in place, as if unsure – confused – of how they were supposed to finish the battle or too scared to acknowledge its fate. But Barricade knew better. These faceless beings did not harbor emotion. Barricade's head peaked slightly as he watched them carefully…

Then understood what the motionless duo was doing.

With a guttural sound of horror, the Decepticon ran forward and pounced onto the smaller yellow mech, bypassing the Honda, the closer of the pair, altogether. He almost managed to pry open its chest cavity and pull out the location-recognition software it no doubt harbored, but was instead grabbed by the door wings adorning his shoulders and was yanked backwards. The painful attempt at heroism by the red Autobot broke the glass of his right window, and would have pulled the wing off its attached bolt completely if the infuriated Decepticon didn't swivel and grab the lifeless bastard of the Allspark by the throat. With a significant display of power, he punched the nameless drone in its torso and sent it wheeling into the back of the house.

A terrified scream (_the femme—_) mixed with the audio of involuntary destruction reached Barricade's receptors, yet he didn't look back as he advanced once more on the dazed yellow Autobot and separated that weak spark from its owner.

The drone fell lifelessly from Barricade's hold, but the Saleen was not finished with his victim. "What did you download, you sparkles shell…" he murmured as he picked apart the remaining armor of his defeated enemy and found the cavity that held its recorded files. Before they could be uploaded to the database to which it was wirelessly connected, the interrogator severed the equipment (by neatly ripping it out) of the case and held it in his palm, examining it thoroughly. This surprise attack was no doubt the work of an enemy scout, probably controlling a small group of identical drones in an effort to track down the Witwicky girl. Barricade took all of .000560 seconds to assume who was behind the search for LadiesMan217's relative. The commander couldn't be terribly far from its drones in order to expel directions, so the Cybertronian was within the radius of the country, predictably. Luckily, he had destroyed the clone before it could send coordinates to its leading officer.

Barricade's optics swept the case of communications equipment intently, although it was his spark detector that was doing the searching. "I know you're out there, Bumblebee… show your cowardly visage." he grumbled. When the supposed commander, and none of the other enemy Cybertronian's, popped out and engaged him in striking conversation, he crushed the technology that he had been gripping in his claw and tossed it onto the deceased body of the Chevelle.

When he peered lazily over his shoulder he saw the Honda had a grip on the girl, who was humorously beating her fists against the hand of the machine encasing her. It would have made off with its catch had the Saleen not ended the confrontation with a plasma shot to its life-provider. Steam rolled out of the barrel of Barricade's cannon as he lowered it, stepping towards the deceased body of the nettlesome Autobot.

He needed to dispose of these remains, before its commander realized their absences and set out to retrieve them. He had not thought of this consequence when exterminating the spies, and realized now how useless his destruction of the Chevelle's location-divulger was. Returning to his present troubles after a brief reprimanding of his amateurish mistake, he couldn't immediately think of anywhere to put the five bodies without the disposal turning into a dangerous mission. If he left the girl, she would flee. If he left the area transformed out of his terrestrial disguise, he would be spotted.

He kicked one of the still heaps of scrap that was causing him unnecessary grief. He stalked back and forth a few paces, nudged the body again, and then thought of something interesting to do with the mangled remains. With a hidden smile piercing his features, the Decepticon turned and took the few steps to the exposed bowels of the house, where sitting on the ground below, was Caroline.

The miserable creature had a towel wrapped around her body and had dripping dark blonde hair plastered to the sides of her face and neck. She didn't conceal her labored breathing, and certainly didn't hide her parted lips and gigantic eyes. She sat in the palm of his deceased foe, an ugly blotch of blood on the right side of her face from the landing impact. Her countenance, shell-shocked, appeared as if he had personally driven the flat of his hand across her cheek. But this expression did little to hinder the severe anger he saw there. Her knitted eyebrows and stiff jaw told of a building explosion waiting to be unleashed from its dormant home.

She began slowly, almost as if she was fighting to hold back, "One day. I can't go one day with peace, tranquility. You had to kidnap me, great; you want to torture me, fine. But then you put me through _this_?"

Carly motioned to the manicured lawn-turned-war zone surrounding her with a tiny, yet universally intense sweep of her hand. "Let me tell you something, pal—" She jabbed the broken nail of her index finger into what would have been his face, but was thin air, due to the fact that he watched her from his twelve-foot height advantage, "I am a _woman_. I am an _American citizen. _Ever heard of the Declaration of Independence, you son of a bitch? I have rights! This is not one of them!"

She mentally told herself to stop flailing her arms in such a dramatic, hysterical manner, but the part of her brain that controlled her motor skills seemed to be oblivious to its rational other. "You're lucky I haven't found a weapon in this God-forsaken place, or I would have gone Second Amendment on your ass _days _ago! You make me so angry, I...I...You suck! You really do. Have no doubt about it."

Carly ran out of juice for her avalanche of hatred (obviously, from ending on such a boring note), ran out of sparks for the flame she had only briefly ignited. Now she felt like a complete idiot, although this was not a hard feat to accomplish in the presence of a member of a technologically and mentally advanced alien race. How had she gone from such torrid passion towards another living organism to such impassive self-loathing? God, she would have killed for some tequila about now.

"Get dressed," he ordered, ignoring what she may or may not have felt and glancing back at the array of scrap metal that was once his several aggressors, "We're leaving."


	5. Ignorance

"What does he mean I don't exist? That's funny, because here I am, metal and circuitry, functioning at perfectly apt capacity."

"You're preaching to the choir."

"Sad excuse for a procreating organic, if you ask me."

"NEST is endangered by _him_? I'd _like_ to see him take down our base of operations."

Jolt, Knock Out, and Dune Runner conversed softly amongst themselves, their mused grumblings floating to the audio receptors of their supervisor. Bumblebee walked over, his thumb and forefinger gripping the jutted ridge between his optical sensors. It was a frustrated gesture he had developed from observing Captain Lennox. He was not in a good mood after all Theodore Galloway had had to say about NEST's future. He was in a worse mood after the footnotes the Washington official had hurled out at his group, claiming that under his jurisdiction, official paperwork was the only way the Autobot's were capable of reality on this planet. Despite Major Lennox's and Sergeant Epp's defense for him and his party, Galloway had more political influence within the Pentagon and would no doubt fight his hardest to have NEST eliminated and their human allies reassigned. This had clearly been taken as an insult to the allied robotic and organic population, so that when Galloway had said all there was to say, escorts were necessary so neither of the groups charged forward to wring his neck upon his departure. However, tempers from both sides were evidently still heated.

"Listen," the yellow mech stated, startling the attention of the cadets with his approach, "We are all upset. But directing blame towards our national security advisor will accomplish nothing." Mentioning the official's title almost made the Camaro scoff deridingly, although he refrained from this so as not to seem like a hypocrite.

"So he's allowed to gripe and whine about our lack of achievements, yet we can't do the same?" Knock Out snorted, focusing attention on himself as his two fellow subordinates prepared for an argument. The Yamaha was infamous for being as quick with his words as he was flashy with his skills.

Bumblebee stared pointedly at the green motorcycle, and the defiant little Autobot held his gaze. "NEST is still an established program. Despite Mr. Galloway's – complaints – he does not have the power, or the authority, to completely shut us down."

"That doesn't mean he can't put us at a standstill. He's a smart little bastard - he'll no doubt find an excuse as to why we are no longer commercially relevant in the United States' security. You heard him: the Decepticon threat level has been downgraded to code blue. Alienating our help is just the beginning," the scout returned. "He's tried to rid this world of us once – why shouldn't he try it again?"

The green cadet was well-informed, and unfortunately, accurate in his comeback. Bumblebee nodded his head solemnly. "We will see."

"We can at least have assurance that they are not writing off the Decepticon menace completely," Dune Runner added, as if to lighten the worries of his fellow Autobot's, "According to Galloway, orbital defense funds will be increased. That's good news, isn't it? The Decepticons will have a more difficult time landing, even communicating amongst themselves on Earth should they—"

"Sure, it's great news." the cheeky motorcycle cut in sarcastically, "Because if the Decepticons won't be able to land, either will we, when the government has us expelled from this planet."

Dune Runner shifted uncomfortably at the prospect, not at all enjoying the idea of banishment. Knock Out had heard enough excuses for the dire direction the joint Autobot and human taskforce was pointed towards. There was a small helping of soldiers located separately from Bumblebee's group, and he joined them brusquely.

Jolt looked inquiringly at their supervisor. Bumblebee rested a hand on one of Dune Runner's slouched shoulders. "Don't mind your comrade. He has accompanied NEST through multiple missions in the past, from Peru to Rome; watching as the program is dismantled is difficult for him."

"So it will be dismantled?" Jolt interrupted.

Poor Jolt. It was a miracle that he still harbored such sincere obliviousness after all he had endured in training and on the battlefield.

"I am not sure." Bumblebee responded quietly. A taciturn fog fell over the three as each considered the consequences to humans if the Cybertronian people were expelled from Earth, and the harsh times that would come forth in finding a new home; for the Decepticon's were no doubt less apt to moving their war to a less inhabited planet because the humans told them so.

But then a timid little thing advanced to them. She was visibly shaking, clutching a clipboard to her chest as if the miniscule wood would protect her from the giant robots she now approached.

"H-H-Hello," she stuttered, smiling several times as if to control how best she could accomplish the feature. She froze, the smile drooping and pupils dilating as six optics converged on her frame.

Upon looking down, Bumblebee met her terrified gaze, and his optics brightened substantially as if to showcase his delight in meeting someone new. Having a distraction from the dark thoughts only Director Galloway had the ability to conjure after a victory was nice, too. "_Hey, soul sister,_" Train responded affably, and gratefully in the yellow scout's case. His vocal stabilizer was having a stroke of good fortune, and so he had found that talking with the adapted English language was not extensively difficult compared to when his speech cords were first damaged. But he had come to learn that snippets of radio tunes eased newcomers into a more comfortable state of well-being upon hearing something recognizable from someone so strange.

"Y-Yes, h-hello," she repeated with a nervous grin, a childish curiosity brightening her intelligent eyes; "I-I-I was instructed to inform you that bunkers have been provided on base until such a time where you find it necessary to leave." She glanced several times at her beloved clipboard, as if trying to attach a name to his faceplate. Abjuring the hunt, she took a few steps back and appeared ready to make a run for it.

"_What's your name, what's your name? Oh, I really want to know…_" Jesse McCartney begged.

"Sari." She responded politely, her retreating footsteps halting so as not to appear rude. He took a second to look over the mess of auburn hair that had been pulled into a loose ponytail and the snug jeans smeared with various greases and spots of dirt. He recognized the smell (of which he had an astute sense) and appearance of coolant coupled with windshield and brake fluid, suggesting a mechanical-related occupation. The fact that her words were oddly replayed before being fully produced from her larynx did not neglect in suggesting this was her first experience with the Autobot's, either. Otherwise, he couldn't help but think how effective of an ambassador she would be, and how sweet of a friend she would make.

"For what?" Jolt inquired quizzically, referring to the verbalization of her title. A low grumbling formed in Bumblebee's throat, pitches smoothly rolling from high to low in a familiar sound: laughter.

Sari started at the seeming manifestation of another alien into the bizarre discussion. "N-N-No, m-my name is pronounced 'sorry', but it's actually S-A-R-I," she spelled out helpfully. Jolt took a moment to consider this as Bumblebee's optics still contained bright humor within their lenses.

"_Sweet little bumblebee, more than just a fantasy…_" The Camaro responded, kneeling down (much to her horror, as she backed away in muted astonishment) and holding out a finger. At first she didn't understand, consoling the several sheets of paper upon the cherished wood, flipping through each one frantically until the second page caught her attention. "M-Mr. B-Bumblebee?" she tried, inspecting his large digit warily upon learning his Earth-borne designation.

"_Shake, shake, shake, shake, uh shake it!_" Metro Station clarified.

She reached out a quivering hand and wrapped it around as best she could the offered finger. He did the work in lifting and raising her palm with his in the awkward shake, but the friendship solidified as her limp grasp dropped and his optic winked off, then on.

"_I want to thank you, for giving me the best day of my life,_" Dido played, the Camaro straightening up (startling her once more) and politely excusing himself with a little wave of his hand. She nodded eagerly, her smile infectious, spreading to the soldiers a short distance away who were watching the exchange. The young girl scraped her trembling fingers through her hair self-consciously as she turned and hustled to a different section of Edwards Air Force Base. When she was out of earshot, the soldiers whistled and gave the Camaro thumbs-ups and air-fives. Knock Out was the only stubborn warrior not to join the teasing fray, although he was usually the first to garner such flaunting recognition. The yellow commander waved his human allies abruptly away; he turned his taillights warmheartedly to them as they roared with laughter (a skinny Caucasian man had commenced to depict Akon's classic "Smack That").

"Whatever happens to NEST," Bumblebee stated to Jolt, his optics secretly following the trail of the sheepish woman. Sari reminded him of a female version of Sam; anxious, but friendly. The thought of Sam reminded the young Autobot scout of his morose promise to the boy, and his personal pledge to the rest of the inhabitants of this innocent planet. "I'll be damned if Galloway or any other stops me from protecting this race."

Jolt nodded enthusiastically, ignoring the rolled optics of Knock Out, and Dune Runner chuckled humorously as his grievous mood lightened, his easily readable faceplate visibly brightening. Perhaps, Bumblebee mused, there was hope for the currently tense relationships between his people and those of this Earth.

Perhaps all peace took was a pleasant tune.

* * *

It rained all that afternoon, and into the night. It poured the rest of the following day, and then happened to stop simultaneously with the Saleen as, after twenty-nine hours and fifteen minutes of tedious, mind-numbing road, they arrived at their undisclosed destination.

Carly had only eaten once along the way – and had discharged that meal around the time it had been devoured. Her captor apparently did not understand that humans could not digest _everything _– or it had a despicable sense of humor. For she had complained the first day of their companionship that she did not want to consume "garbage", and this time around, that was what she had literally had to introduce to her unsatisfied stomach. She had fought blackouts constantly during the thirty hours of travel, both from hunger and from an illness that was as excruciating as it was unexplainable. It was no doubt a sickness engendered from lack of nutrition's and the stress of the past several days. She had had only one piece of convenient luck throughout the timeline of the trip. A hair tie had been retrieved, abandoned beside the dumpster she had had to dig out of for food, and now the once tangled mass of golden ringlets that had hung in and around her face was manageable. But other than this respite of fortune otherwise vanished from the Hell ironically entitled life, she found she could not even grip to the alternate reality of the inner workings of her mind. She struggled to pretend, every waking second of the trip, that she was in the bowels of the Las Vegas taxi she had used long ago when this had been a new, terrible, experience. But she had witnessed too much for her mind to gloss over the seriousness of her situation.

Accompanying her inability to lie to her emotionally damaged brain, she also discovered her lack of direction. Between the spouts of amnesia she would succumb to and the break downs she would silently bear, the young woman was unable to determine where they were headed, or as of now, where they had arrived. Asking the beast was out of the question. Barricade was aware, of course, that the twenty-nine hours and fifteen minutes had led them to a forest carpeting the border of a river trailing up to Caribou, Maine, an approximate 1757.86 miles from their last residency in Florida. But he was as prone to telling his captive this as Carly was intent on asking.

She had barely had time to throw a sweatshirt over her head and down to cover her tummy and tug a pair of jeans up before its hologram was shoving her out of the assailed household and pulling her into the bowels of the Saleen. At first she had physically refused. Her first - and so far only - experience inside the robot's cabin had been one of fear and dread, and she was obviously reluctant to return to such a gruesome setting. However, a single second passed and she wasn't given any further options other than entering the police interceptor. Such as it was when she was first kidnapped, she had been thrown into the passenger seat, which was somewhat better only because she had a miniscule margin of extra space for her long, previously cramped legs. Otherwise, her semi-forgotten anxiety and helplessness came charging back into her thoughts, and she had had to swallow a horrified scream when the ignition was wordlessly turned and they roared away from the two-story prison, fleeing as if Satan himself were nipping at their heels.

And now, even more miserable then she had started out as, Carly took a step out of the parked Saleen with great tribulation, clutching her forehead as if her hand could vanquish the throbbing migraine that had plagued her since nearly the beginning of the awful journey. The second she caught sight of the bubbling river several meters away, however, her headache was forgotten, as was the exhaustion that had crept into her unused and unexercised bones. She desperately stumbled over herself in a sprint to reach the rush of water, as though any moment it would evaporate into the atmosphere and leave her to die of the thirst that had long ago withered the inside of her throat to dust. With no regard of how ridiculous she may have looked to the monster, who she vaguely heard transforming during the midst of this episode, she thrust her face into the freezing depths and took an entire mouthful of the delicious fluid. She eventually surfaced, but only after having taken down several enormous gulps of the refreshing water. She took frantic gasps of oxygen to assuage her lungs, and then repeated the process. She didn't think of the pollution that had no doubt touched this liquid, and she certainly ignored the dirt and amphibious feces no doubt lingering in what she was consuming. She simply concentrated on curing the thirst that had awoken her from uncomfortable sleeps and had nearly choked her on a handful of occasions.

Barricade watched this procedure nonchalantly. He was hardly impressed that the girl had survived the ordeal he had put it through; in fact, he was slightly frustrated. The fact that it was not, at this moment, writhing before him was probably because of the rest he had taken the day before in Delaware. It had been released long enough to find something edible, which must have been the problem. He did not regret it, for until that point it had insisted on groaning obnoxiously and irritating the sensitive leather of his interior by squirming endlessly, but he felt it could have withstood more. His entertainment during the dull hours of the expedition was to see where that limit could have been pushed, how far its will could have been tempted. It was a sick game he had amused himself with in exchange for having to keep it alive. Soundwave had never requested that the Witwicky be healthy, after all, only online.

A pleased gleam found its way to his crimson optics as the female turned with a severe glare tainting its countenance. Its teeth clenched to a point where he would not have been surprised if they shattered under the pressure of their opposite (_yes, the anger, the agony—)_, and it stomped forward with what little strength it possessed to stop in front of his intimidating form.

So many words yearned to be heard. So many threats and obscene wishes strived to be released. Instead of such a civil route to direct her hatred down, she screamed. She screamed useless nothing at the creature, tears mixing with the speckles of dirt and besmirched river water smothered over her twisted features. She beat her fists against the outside of the evil thing, sobbing loudly as the pain seared through her hands but not stopping. She persisted in her onslaught, her hair falling out of its bun and falling in demonic wisps around her scarred face. She cried and shrieked and hit with all the unspent fury that could only be expelled from days of physical and mental, undeterred abuse. She ignored the instant bruising from the impact of flesh on metal, slamming her fists into its armor, only stopping in order to fall to her knees and clutch her face when the convulsions took control. She raked her fingers madly through her hair, tearing strand after strand out of her scalp as she wept bitterly.

She grew frustrated with her own tears, swiping at them angrily, only to hurt herself further by digging too deeply with her jagged nails into the soft skin of her face. She rocked back and forth on the ground, head in hands, finding breath more difficult to come by as she released all of her misery into one long, drawn-out cry.

He saw this pathetic representation of passion and was disgusted by what he saw. It had no right to pretend it was in pain. It had no right to pretend it felt misery. It had no right to feign harboring these simplistic emotions when it had barely skimmed the surface of the well of despondency only capable of being filled from millions of years of endless warfare.

Of self-perpetuating deaths.

Of useless, avoidable killings fueled by propaganda produced from prejudiced leaders.

"Shut up, you stupid thing!" Barricade finally burst out, snapping his head down to look at the fleshling that dared to mock him with its babyish tantrum.

She raised her head, surprised by the heartless demand; shocked that it would request something so harsh from someone so fragile.

Barricade was clearly fed up with the girl's ungrounded, violent zeal. "You believe you are under cruel circumstances? I ask you: were you deprived of supplement as a sparkling because your provisions were stolen and eaten by the enemy that had killed your mother? Tell me: were you beaten near to death by your remaining parent, lunar cycle after lunar cycle after _lunar cycle_ because you were somehow to blame for the disappearance of their bonded? I want to know: how many friends have you fought – killed – over a scrap of substance that might not even have the capability, the energy, to replenish nearly offline systems? How many have you killed?"

The question echoed amidst the white trunks of the ageless trees watching, still as stone, the confrontation.

"You sob and mope and blubber when you have _no _conception of pain and its complications. Ignorant sparkling," he snorted, having turned once working himself up due to his shame of revealing such personal recounts, but now returning his cold stare to its pitiful one, "Do not dare shed a tear if you have not suffered through such bespoken of experiences."

Her eyes were quick to dry.

Memories returned, dug up from the hidden, shallow grave of a scarred mind that had succeeded in covering and erasing and forgetting his past until this moment. Visibly upset that the human had accomplished what his enemies could only dream of bringing forth, of reviving old pain that could pierce him more thoroughly than any weapon, the Decepticon, with a truly alien snarl, thrust his fist into the trunk of a thick white birch. It splintered, cracked, fell, jolting Caroline and making her verbally gasp. He searched for anything to tear his claws into, infuriated by his own feelings, and how it had turned his own game against him. Another tree met its end as its solid stature was uprooted from the soggy, leaf-strewn ground and hurtled into the defenseless wood of a sister birch.

"I'm sorry." Carly whispered, barely audible, as she watched in subdued astonishment.

"You do not know what pain is. I have been merciful. You do not know what fear is. I have been forbearing of such ideals you could never conceive." he hissed, releasing another anguished (_how dare it?—_) cry and felling another helpless tree. "Did I receive such kindness?" He asked rhetorically, watching it cower, struggling to enjoy that pain and fear – emotions it could not begin to understand even though it so easily felt them – ripple anew across its features, despite that those emotions were identical to his own.

"That is why I so relish hurting you," he murmured, at first to Caroline, and then to the air that harbored memories of a different time, in a different language, upon a different world, "Because you pretend to suffer when you could not describe the horrors you assume you fight through."

Carly noticed its use of past tense, noted that it was no longer speaking to her. Was it remembering a time long ago? What situation had he been placed in that he would utter such a frightful revelation?

She caught herself referring to the monster as a _he _– but was her reference justified? Whether or not it was, she could not help but pity it – _him_, she scolded herself – because obviously something in the past had traumatized him into the state he was in now.

Something was triggered inside of her, either a sympathetic sensation or something deeper, which allowed her to consider this kidnapping situation from his point of view. The film of abhorrence that had previously blinded her broke and crumpled away, improving her vision of his suppressed languishes. She saw a child, a perturbed one, raised by a father that replaced stern chidings with severe beatings. She saw a mentally unstable soldier that knew only how to hurt prisoners, not console them, not care for them, no matter the situation. Most of all, she saw an equal before her, who wanted, maybe needed, comfort, whether or not he realized it yet.

Perhaps it was a motherly instinct, or perhaps she was officially insane, but Carly lifted her hunched form to a crouching position, with one leg withstanding her weight. She slowly proceeded from there to stand, and stepped forward to the child.

To the soldier.

To the equal.

With tears streaming down her already stained cheeks, she lightly touched his leg. He looked down at her, motionless. With a cracked, heavily emotional voice, she sang softly, "Hush, little baby, don't say a word…"

His optics shuddered then refocused intently on her visage, confused but silent as she continued, "…Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird."

A teardrop was soaked up by the drenched earth beneath the pair as their optics and eyes found a small, significant ounce of repose in the others' gaze. A halo of peace encircled the couple as Barricade allowed the contact, and Caroline applied pressure to their connection.

Had she resorted to her good-hearted nature or was she so gullible that the moment he presented something resembling feeling – which may or may not have been fabricated – she offered consolation for him? Maybe it was because he had shown that emotion; he had shown that he had the capability to feel, amidst the evil discoloring of his outward image. Either way, this felt too good to ruin by doubting her choice; the standard cold metal beneath her fingertips felt too solid to relinquish when usually faced with a reality that was otherwise constantly revising and changing itself.

"And if that mockingbird won't sing,"

She doubted her own sanity as an almost invisible, thin tilt of the side of her mouth indicated the beginning of a smile. This is what which spoke of more understanding and acceptance than any victim – than any one individual close to him – had ever shown, Barricade acknowledged as she gripped firmly the only reachable limb accessible. He was tempted to show her (_her?—) _gratitude by presenting a digit for her to clasp, but refused. Although grateful for her attempt to placate his roiling hurricane of haunting ghosts and acerbic skeletons, he was too ashamed to admit that he had showcased these intensely personal experiences. He could only stare at her fond, blue pupils as her small voice echoed amidst the attentive white birches and the Decepticon towering amongst them.

"Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring…"


	6. Irrational

Bumblebee did not neglect in making an entrance. Upon finding the particular alley he had hunted for throughout the entire state of North Dakota, he crunched through the small helping of snow that populated the ground and held still at the slim opening between two brick buildings facing the main street. February, and the temperatures were still cool enough for a decent amount of the frozen liquid. His thick metal feet trudged through the material, coating the soles of them as he swept the area intently for any signs of awaiting guerilla warfare.

The alley was empty. He remained more alert than if he had found signs of Decepticon activity, however.

They were more dangerous when undiscovered.

Bumblebee's right arm clicked back and brought forth his plasma cannon, cautiously waving his sensors from side to side as he drew deeper into the bowels of the darkness. Waiting until daybreak had not been an available option, as he was weary of not the humans, but what those he was pursuing would do if they were able to use those humans as leverage. He relied solely on an advanced version of thermal and infrared imaging, even though a meager glow from a small lamp overhead prevented this technology from being highly effective when opposed to a pitch black setting.

Suddenly, a snowflake perched on his shoulder. The Camaro came to a halt and sifted through local news station channels – and according to a hastily viewed weather report, snow downfall was not due until tomorrow evening. The soft pillows beneath him were residual from yesterday morning's blizzards. His cannon bellowing smokes of freezing air from its torrid center, he raised it to the roofs, but his response came too late.

A Decepticon - nearly invisible due to its black armor blending in almost perfectly with the environment surrounding it - had fallen from the roof above to confront its foe, and now bounced nimbly off the ground a few feet in front of the unprepared scout and rolled to a crouched battle position. He swung his forearms down in a striking motion towards the earth, and reproduced hands that were heavy with metal spikes. They had slid down from encasings to replace each digit that had previously been the normal sharpness of any of their kind. Even then the drill-like weapons were not as daunting as the wide, knowing grin garnishing the enemy's faceplates.

Bumblebee's cannon rose to meet this newcomer, but the inky Jaguar closed the distance between them before shots could be delivered. He swiped at the Autobot's chest, at the Autobot's head, at the Autobot's fist that almost connected with his offending claw, but the Decepticon easily brushed it aside and slashed into his opponent's shoulder.

It went deep, starting at the collar of Bumblebee's neck and ending at his side until the offender had swiped through the armor flawlessly. The clean slice replaced, metaphorically and literally, the snowflake that had previously warned the Camaro. The assault also wrenched a screech of electrical profanity from the afflicted mech, piercing enough to echo amongst the innards of the empty buildings.

The Jaguar didn't hesitate in persisting, making sure to remove space between them so his foe would not have the ability to use his plasma blasts as means of self-defense. But Bumblebee swiftly transferred to hand-to-hand combat and fought back. They dodged one another as the fight escalated to an utter war. The metal of their limbs rarely clashed as their stealthy evasions grew in numbers, but an occasional, grave blow, made by one or the other, proved to be almost lethal to the victim. Yet the vicious grapple continued as each time the provoked returned to his feet.

Their skills were equally toned, but their tempers proved to be severely differentiating. As the Decepticon pushed forward to deliver another clout, frustrated with the lack of contact the brawl had produced thus far, he realized too late the sloppiness with which he had reached for the Autobot's chest. His wrist was caught and snapped back savagely so that the thick, locomotive wire casings adjoining his hand to his forearm fractured. The long, dreaded knives aggrandized on that limb drew back up into the protective holds hidden above the joints of each average-sized digit once the connection holding them in place was severed. A dreadful howl personified the petty revenge taken as a trophy for the Autobot's suffering shoulder.

Bumblebee stepped off, though, instead of pressing the injured mech in front of him. The merciful action (or lack thereof) was only granted in order to cool his rapidly heating systems. Quick in and outtakes of the chilled atmosphere through his countenance's vents prompted the sound of a panting combatant. A throaty growl formed at the bottom of the Jaguar's throat, his infuriated red optics jerking to the haughty gaze of the blue ones sizing him up.

"What's the matter? Don't want to play now that one of your toys is broken?" the British taunt accused deridingly, an unexpected and foul snicker being Bumblebee's answer.

"The game is not over yet, Autobot." the Jaguar jested, straightening but making no move to progression.

Bumblebee was grabbed from his back door wings and thrust against the wall of the dim, dank alley he had entered. Seeing his opponent caught off guard, the Decepticon facing him seized control of the situation by speeding forward. Reaching the startled scout, the Jaguar easily held the smaller mech in place with his intact forearm, his fangs bared grimly as if to challenge the Camaro to escape. A '93 Toyota Supra passed the pair after having succeeded in placing its prey in the clutches of its hound, silkily easing its way around the black and yellow mechs to saunter in its victory. The Camaro removed his glare from that of the Jaguar in order to give the purple Supra his undivided attention.

"Why 'ave you come 'ere, Aut'obot?" the Toyota asked calmly, the feminine, exotically accented voice and slick curves suggesting a female before him.

"Thunderblast?" he inquired first, to be positive he had not wasted his time in coming here and dueling with her guard.

The slight tilting of her helm and the flash of her yellow optics suspiciously inspecting him answered him immediately. "Good. I have a request for you then." Bumblebee spoke as he leaned forward to address her, his insignia flashing in the bare bulb of the 'light' overhead.

"You're not in a position to be making them!" the Jaguar pinning him roughly to the brick wall of the building snarled. The two had a brief struggle as the newcomer tried to personally forsake the hold of the black brute, but his subjugator would have none of it.

"Roadkill, let's 'ear what 'e 'as to say." Thunderblast suggested, her husky voice silencing the thrashing mechs. The Jaguar twitched and glanced at her fierce gaze upon the mentioning of his name, and only with an epigrammatic shove of the Autobot into the thick stone did he respond. But he did back up, if only a few steps, from Bumblebee and sulkily cross his arms.

"As I said," the Autobot grumbled, inadvertently drawing a hand to his shoulder to gingerly feel the wound slashed there, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"What sort'a favor?" she purred, everything about her catlike as she strode towards the yellow Autobot in the incompetent lighting of the alley, "What could I poss'bly provide?"

"Spare me," he snorted mockingly, "I know of the intelligence you possess throughout this country and many others. Don't play coy!"

"I suppose I shoul' take 'at as a complim'nt." Thunderblast responded with a teasing sneer. The expression was not angered, but playful. "So you know of 'at I do. Now ask me yo'r favor."

"Barricade the Decepticon — you're aware of who he is?"

Thunderblast's mischievous smile tipped downward and her optics lost their luster for a fraction of a second before she perked up to cover her recognition with the name. "'a course."

"Should he pass through this region seeking information, I want you to retain the girl traveling with him."

"What'd he do, steal your love interest?" Roadkill scoffed with a humorless chuckle.

"She's important to a friend of mine," Bumblebee continued, ignoring the unnecessary commentary and concentrating on the interested Supra, "And I need your help."

"Oh, no, Aut'obot," she cried in fake astonishment, a wicked gleam brightening the edge of her yellow LED's, "You never admit desp'ration; because now, I want somet'ing from you in return."

"What could I possibly provide?" he said, a hint of sarcasm sandwiched between the disdain and disbelief spoken with the obvious repetition of her own words.

Thunderblast glanced at Roadkill, who apparently took offense to the fun Bumblebee was poking at the female, and smiled vengefully. "Trait'rs are unac'eptable, yes? Bring the mech 'ho told you of my exist'nce to this place."

"I don't have time."

"Then we 'ave no deal."

"Wait! I can give you his title, his function, his coordinates – but I do not have the time to retrieve him myself."

"Oh? You 'xpect me to find 'im? Or does the prospect of telling Roadkill to do it ap'eal to you?"

Was that - eagerness hidden on her faceplate? Bumblebee might have missed it had he not been extensively trained on facial expressions and their quirks and meanings. She _wants _the fight to continue, he realized sourly. The sick, twisted mistress. Roadkill was not any friendlier as his blatantly dirty look invited the Autobot to attempt to order him to do _anything_, and Bumblebee knew another fight was painfully gratuitous. He exhaled deeply.

He found Thunderblast's optics with his own and stared into them harshly. "None of the Autobot's besides myself are aware of your presence. None of my faction knows you are here handing out classified information about the goings-on within our race on this planet, mirroring your illegal activity upon Cybertron. And none of them _have _to know; unless you don't help me. So help me help you."

"You are thre'tning me?" she snapped.

"Yes." Bumblebee said.

Thunderblast watched him carefully, unmoving. Just as Bumblebee was scared she was to sic Roadkill on him again, a bright and luminous smile spread across her features. She released a slow, hoarse laugh.

"I like you, Aut'obot," she said, "You 'arbor the true mak'ngs of a Decept'con."

"So I've been told." the Camaro deadpanned.

A pause, as she considered the Autobot's confession - and his blackmail. "Fine, I shall get yo'r g'rl from Bar'cade in 'xchange you keep my pres'nce a sec'rt."

She advanced on the Autobot, smirking as he tensed and unconsciously straightened in a manner suggesting he had had little contact with the Cybertronian female species before. "Relax," she drawled, her voice lowering an octave as the space between them decreased. He stiffened uncomfortably as she rested a hand on his lower frontal abdomen, a move that would have cost Thunderblast her spark had she not maintained an unthreatening pace. Her slim fingers trailed skywards, dipping into the crevices and grooves of his armor smoothly but occasionally brushing a wound or battle scar. These seemed to please her as she would linger near the area, and then continue her trek up.

"You don't have to _rape _the Autobot to transfer a communications channel." Roadkill quipped pompously, eyeing the couple with what could have easily been jealousy but was most likely disgust.

Thunderblast's smile lengthened and she stopped once reaching Bumblebee's upper chest – above his spark, she duly noted – to pick her hand off his armor. It rose to meet the forefront of his cranium, and searched gently around the fragile precinct occupying the space in front of his erect, alarmed audio receptor until she found the data input receiver she had taken her time in tracing. She placed a digit on the sensitive plate and sent a comm. link that was immediately accepted through the Autobot's fire walls. She was startled, but hid her inward reaction expertly, when in the brief moment of their connection he also sent to her the title, function, and coordinates of the traitor who had betrayed her position to the Autobot foe. Just as he had said.

She pried no longer and detached herself from the helm of the warrior, who had surprisingly endured the ordeal with an impressive amount of grace. She gave him a moment to sift through the files she had launched into his data processor. When he had finished inspecting what had been given to him, the yellow and blue optics met as she murmured, "'at is where you will meet us when I send the designated date and time upon the g'rls capt're."

"Acknowledged."

Having done and said all he had set out to discuss with Thunderblast and her pet, he turned and stalked out of the alleyway with the faint feeling of contrition tugging at his life-provider. He never should have resorted to the measure of entrusting a Decepticon mistress with the survival of Sam's beloved relative, in case the possibility _did _arrive. He never should have gone behind his faction's sensors and traveled here in the first place. But he was too deeply imprinted within this shady business to be able to back out of it now. All he could do was hope this course of action had not been a fatal mistake - for either of the parties he was concerned for.

"It was _very _nice to meet you." Thunderblast whispered sensually, dark undertones cording through the formality. Bumblebee did not turn.

The Jaguar's dark form materialized at her side, his optics shedding a red glow upon her much smaller torso.

"That fragging Autobot scum owes me a limb." Roadkill growled when the Autobot's last panel had clicked into his terrestrial form and he had raced away from their alley. He inspected the broken wrist that had disabled the use of both his claw and the forearm above it in a single strike.

The Supra said nothing, and only sent the information obtained from the Camaro directly to his memory banks.

"When did you get—"

"Go find the one who dares to relinquish information without my ap'rov'l." she snarled threateningly, turning on the Jaguar with a glare that would have sent any lesser minion sprawling to the ground to grovel for forgiveness. Roadkill, however, knew her infuriation was directed at the drone that had leaked knowledge of her whereabouts, and risked the disuse of his serviceable hand by grasping her upraised chin firmly between his sharpened index and thumb.

"You couldn't have gotten your Autobot friend to do it? I find that hard to believe." he sneered, making sure he drove his point home before releasing her. She placed an irked hand on her hip the moment she was free and her helm tipped downward menacingly, which made the Jaguar chortle and raise his hand in defeat. "Just next time, barter for spare parts and I can hunt down the malfunctioning droid myself, without directions."

When she didn't respond with her usual spite, he shrugged and took his leave. Apparently the drone that had betrayed them was not all that was bothering her. It must have been the mentioning of Barricade; she always grew defensive and emotional when that name was conjured. They had had discussions concerning her past interest before, and he knew all too well how moody she could get; which only made him wonder why she agreed to help bring the Decepticon possible harm.

The Jaguar didn't think too long on the matter; he never did. He made sure to remove himself from Thunderblast's line of sight outside the alley before he attempted to transform, a painful and otherwise embarrassing experience as he had to manually lock his arm into place as the roof of the car. For a brief, witty moment he thought about amputating the damnable appendage and becoming a convertible. His humor was immediately replaced with loathing, however, as his chest, more than once, caught on a pothole in the asphalt supporting him and his engine took several furious turnovers until it shrieked to life. The Autobot had delivered wounds that Bumblebee would later find had gained him a dangerous, volatile opponent.

* * *

_"—reporting from Tampa, Florida, at the Miramar. A disturbing occurrence has transpired here at this expensive WatersEdge Newcastle Collection house. Upon returning from a two month vacation with his family, Mr. Jonathan Reckluse discovered that his place of residence had been nearly disintegrated in what is becoming a national mystery, but more importantly, others claim is becoming a cover-up by the government. We now report to Kent Potter at the scene of the destruction, Kent?_"

There was a slight pause as the on-scene news reporter waited for his signal from the cameraman to ensure he was on public air. "_Thank you, Christine. As you can see, caution tape surrounding the area and several National Guard posts are preventing many from viewing what has happened at Mr. Reckluse's house. He has been unavailable for interviewing, most likely being questioned by the military personnel that has arrived to handle the chaos surrounding the discovery of this, frankly, gigantic mess—_"

The online video, a recap of the previous night's follow-up broadcast to what had been aired, live, two days ago, was clicked to an accompanying one.

"—_helicopter was able to capture short footage of what appears to be various scraps of metal, placed together in what can only be described as unrecognizable lettering, even perhaps words meant to_—"

_HA. _The Decepticon, accompanied by his twisted sense of humor, had spelled out neatly, _HA_, in the Cybertronian language. Five helpless drones used as alphabetic symbols to mock the ongoing efforts made by the Autobot's and their allies against the evil faction responsible for this destruction_. _The next news channel listing was chosen on the side bar of the internal screen.

"—_events have been developing for weeks now. It is impossible to forget the broadcast, some time ago, of what fanatics refer to as an "alien warning", and what officials acknowledge as a "global hacking". The issue is still being highly debated_—"

"—_Sam Witwicky not long ago, where many countries had demanded his arrest due to the threat broadcasted around the world from an unknown entity many claim was of alien descent, that now American representatives are claiming was nothing more than a prank hack on the Pentagon_—"

"—_hundreds of citizens are asking: when will these strange occurrences be stopped? Many are turning to the president of our United States seeking information_—"

"—_threatens the sanctity of our society as religious zealots question the very existence they have come to know and_—"

"—_violence as protestors demand to know what the United States, perhaps even fellow capitalist nations, is hiding from its people_—"

"—_Thank you, Kent,_" the news anchor woman said gratefully as the string of videos was reversed back to the original broadcast, "_It has become obvious that, despite the seemingly unimportant magnitude of the destruction of Mr. Reckluse's home, the national population has found need for great speculation concerning the subject. That's all we have for this evening's ten o' clock news_—"

With the gentle tug of his engine draining the needed fuel from his electric battery being the only form of accompaniment remaining on his lonesome journey, he disabled the wireless Internet connection that had been feeding the current events directly to his optical screens. Humans were such fragile creatures; so much as a glimmer of proof that extra terrestrial life shared this world with them, and the means of society and order hinged from a single thread of a weak piece of yarn. He liked the flesh creatures – their personalities were enjoyable, at the least – but they were a hazardous race. Nonetheless, the few he had gotten to know, had been sincere, good people – Sam Witwicky, William Lennox, the "Sorry" girl – and he knew nothing short of death would diminish their friendship's.

But for once, his actions did not regard the sentiment race he and his fellow comrades cared so much for. A blip on NEST's national spark-seeking radar – one of hundreds of identical screens set up to monitor Cybertronian activity on a global scale – alerted him to a matter that did not concern his newfound friends.

The blip had shown an old Decepticon enemy resurfacing in Maine, and after further investigation into the signature, he knew it was time to confront his past.

_"Please, spare me. Please, stop. Please!"_

He mentally cringed at the brandished memory, his conservative horsepower drawing him along the sparsely populated freeway.

_"Just kill me. Just kill me. Kill me!"_

The recollection of his own begging released a juggernaut of unfiled emotions into his scarred spark chamber, throbbing in beat with his unstable life-provider. He tried and failed to escape back into the shell of the mech that the Autobot's had shaped for him – the oblivious, sporadic, fun-loving shell that was so easy to utilize in order to please his peers. Seldom did he present his damaged, blaringly realistic side to the harsh critique of the world - seldom did he present his damaged, blaringly realistic side to himself.

But, barreling down the highway towards the past that had left him lost and confused, returning to the Autobot so full of life and passion was not an option. He had decided something long ago when the Autobot medic Ratchet had first discovered his mutilated carcass, strewn along the length of one of Mission City's streets, meant to be mistaken as useless parts. He had decided that should an opportunity be presented where he could confront Barricade and gain retribution for what the Saleen had done to him, he would not hesitate.

He had almost alerted his Autobot commander, Bumblebee, to the presence of their mutual foe, but had decided against it. The normally cheery Camaro had been keeping a terrible secret for several months, he was certain of this, despite not having the availability of proof for his conclusion. Ever since a talk with the Witwicky boy in the Autobot interactional facility in the wee days since the beginning of January, Bumblebee had not been himself. No one – not even Optimus, it was rumored – was aware of what Sam and his guardian had discussed that day, but the changes, whether they were subtle or apparent, were nonetheless there. Yes, when Bumblebee was present he easily passed as his regular, carefree self; one look into his optics, however, betrayed the desolate guilt harbored by the yellow scout. More obvious signs of Bumblebee's deteriorating normalcy were that he disappeared often, refused to reply to comm.'s, was rarely sufficiently charged - suggesting an unhealthy lack of rest. It was best his commander be ignorant of the reappearance of Barricade, for health purposes. Besides, he had his own selfish reasons to meet with the Decepticon alone, as well.

Very selfish reasons, Jolt confirmed coldly, the blue Chevy Volt demolishing miles of distance in minutes in pursuit of this buried section of his past. But soon those reasons would no longer be a variable, an obstacle, blockading the way to his happiness and inner peace. Soon that particular variable would be forever vanquished, and would no longer have the capability to do any harm.

* * *

**Author's Note: Dear Primus, and in the words of our good friend Jolt, _"Just kill me. Just kill me. Kill me!"_ So much ANGST. But I'm hoping the next Chapter will be filled with less of it. Sorry for all the DRAMA. But I suppose you should expect it, coming from me. Thou hast been warnt.**

**P.S.: I sort of love how Barricade has done so much emotional damage to everyone in this fragging' story. Bumblebee = check. Carly = check. Jolt = check. Thunderblast = check. Jesus, everyone's got to be gunning for a slice of his spark. Poor Roadkill (who is Ouchimoo's character as well as Sari from the previous Chapter, now that I mention them in a side note, and both are credited to her), he's left out. It's okay though, I love the Jaguar, he'll be making more guest appearances later on... (Hint?)**


	7. Interaction

She was officially insane. The first step to recovery was acceptance, Carly conceded.

She sat in front of the humble fire she had accumulated the twigs and sticks currently residing there for. She listened to the snap, crackle, and pop of the hungry flames feeding voraciously on the oxygen fueling them. During this peaceful period, she could only be glad for the warm, red hue of the fire to hide the bright scarlet color of her cheeks and the embarrassment that was permanently displayed there.

She had _sung _to the God damn thing. What the hell was wrong with her? She had _petted _and _sung a lullaby _to a giant God damned robot from the black stretches of space. She was positively grateful that he had left soon after their "bonding moment" since she didn't think she could stand to ever look at him again. _Hey there, buttschmo, you think it's funny making me eat garbage? _Carly mused sourly to herself, _well here; let me beat you up, a freakin' big ass walking car, with my itty bitty fists of destruction. Wait. Better idea. How about I serenade you with a folk song like a drunken hippie? Oh, that's not good enough for you? Well you could always walk away and leave me here by myself in the cold to further implement the fact that I'm a dumbass. Oh good, we're on the same page._

She sighed and prodded the hollowed out fire pit filled to the brim with old tree debris. She was stationed on the flat surface of the top of a hill that sat above the river she had dunked her head into earlier. It provided a pretty view. It saved her from most of the gales sweeping through the region. But it contained a deftly concealed warning by the giant robot – endless trees and grass extended for miles: which meant no civilization in sight, which meant no rescue on her part.

This was probably the only reason she had been allowed freedom. She would have died in the surrounding woods long before escape would be attainable. She had to admit something though, despite the morose situation. Now that her captor wasn't around to threaten and intimidate her, she felt more relaxed and light-hearted as opposed to how she felt when under his supervision. Despite that the lonesome night gave her more time to dwell on the fact that she had _comforted _a sixteen foot tall alien creature (she shook her head at the gruesome memory), she felt safe within the protective confines of the white birches encircling her. There had been key low points for her while braving the wilderness alone. First of all, it had been hell trying to bash two rocks against one another to produce a spark, but upon finding the proper angle in which to beat the stones together, the hot flames before her had been worth the effort. It was cold, and temperatures only plummeted every time a gust of wind chilled her through the sweatshirt she adorned. Jeans? Not so much luck in that department. She had tripped during her hunt for wood, and a snarling branch had hooked into the fabric and ripped through the entire leg when she had struggled. She had tried to tear the pants legs off both sides in order to at least don shorts, but she had instead ruined the entire article of clothing by making it more of a mangled mess. She was just grateful that, in the frantic scramble for clothes back at the house, she had grabbed a sweatshirt long enough to cover her body down to her knees. The last thing she needed was to have her panties exposed to what she now considered a male.

Speak of the devil – Mr. Evil Cop Car came slinking through the trees and towards her little cubby in the forest. His hydraulics strained as he climbed the steep recline to his chosen spot for her. His headlight lamps pierced into the deep recesses of the black night at her back as he came level with the ground of the campsite, his red eyes slicing through what was deemed worthy enough to catch his attention as he approached.

His gaze eventually fell on the Witwicky.

She felt her previous comfort dissipate as he scrutinized her and her – pants-less-ness – but she held strong. She was sick of being constantly afraid and emotional – oh dear _God _she was finished being emotional – and as so plastered on a grin as he sat down abruptly. Necessity of survival in this foreign land outweighed her keeping of a grudge. Besides, she was never very good at remaining mad, anyways; even despite the trash-eating "incident".

"Hi there. How are you?" she tried, broadening her toothless smile.

His blood red pupils flickered away impatiently.

"Where've you been?"

Barricade had raided one of Caribou's vehicular workshops for supplies. It had been closed, so no mechanical-savvy employees had been available; leaving him with useless tools stored in his trunk since he did not possess the finesse or medical skill to repair his innards single-handedly. He didn't enjoy the idea of a human snooping around with his sensitive wiring, either. He didn't respond with this explanation, however, instead distracting himself with a rift in his side.

"That looks painful."

He tinkered with his wrist for a moment, and then expelled an aggravated sigh. Plasma deposits had sunk too far in the negatives – both for weaponry and maintenance - for him to be able to use a retractable laser beam to weld together the wound. Typical.

"What'cha doin'?"

"Fleshling," he began with soft malice, an optic ridge rising with annoyance as his gaze flickered to where she innocently sat, "What I am doing and the business I partake in is of complete unimportance to you."

"That doesn't mean I can't be polite and ask." she responded calmly.

"Suddenly you grow brave. Obnoxious little thing. Only breems ago you nearly killed yourself attacking me."

"Yeah; sorry about that. I'm not very good with venting frustration." she tried a small giggle, of which he did not return but continued glaring at her with distaste. "In my defense, though, you knocked down a bunch of trees when you got upset. I just went ape shit on your foot."

He returned to his manual check-up. Carly smiled, despite the effort of trying to hide it so he didn't grow suspicious. He was talking to her. Actually, more like talking _at _her. Maybe not talking in general – responding, for the most part. That was a significant step from their usual interactions, either way. Proud that she had instigated something almost passable as a conversation, she vowed not to let this opportunity pass. The young woman raked her brain for a question, any question, to pester him with.

"I fell in mud the night before I was in that house, the same day that you kidnapped me," she began, "But the next morning I was squeaky clean. What's up with that?"

His helm lifted from where it had been investigating his side. He blinked once at her, clearing his optics of a microscopic film of ice covering the casing. "That is honestly the most intelligible question you're capable of producing?"

"What do you want from me? I'm only human."

Barricade released a puff of crystallized H2O and O2 from his freezing vents. He wasn't necessarily cold, but the particles of atmosphere in their liquid form were bothersome to his oxygen circulation and intake pipes; almost as much as the female was bothersome to his audio receptors. But he was conservative by withholding the use of his internal heater and instead dealt with the mild discomfort. He, manifestly, had languished through worse conditions.

He noticed the human was worse off because of its already fragile systems and the condition her previous violence had put her in bodily. Its heart rate was slower than if it had been at rest for an abnormally long period of time, and even from its outward appearance one could obviously tell she did not have an internal heater at her disposal.

He pondered absently if this was the reason for her inquisitive mood. It was most likely the tedium role they played in their camaraderie that led her to start such – discussions. He didn't care much for idle chatter, either way. He preferred getting to the point. No sense in equivocating.

"I washed you." he answered her previous probe, with an impressive amount of equanimity involved on his part.

Carly hesitated. "How?"

"You want a description? I stripped you, hosed you down, and placed you on the bed. You burrowed under the sheets of your own accord, I assure you."

"That sounds – gentle."

"Were you awake for the experience?"

"N-No?"

"Then I was gentle enough." he snapped.

"Hedonist," she accused playfully.

"Yes, I took great pleasure in scouring your flesh of dirt." he returned sarcastically.

"Why'd you do it then?"

"You caught me," he declared with fake surprise, "I have a fetish for unclean humans. They're absolutely ravishing." He cleverly avoided the original question.

Carly laughed curtly. He was actually sort of – witty. "I must be a hot piece of shit right now then." She raised her arms and looked down at her unwashed body.

"I can barely contain myself from molesting you." he replied with a nonchalant stare, fidgeting in his spot. At first she thought he was physically jesting with her, but then took a closer look and realized he was adjusting his position. With a pained groan he, limb by limb, stretched out next to the fire (nearly extinguishing the flames with his spastic movements and upbringing of dust) and dropped to the forest floor. Lying on his back, he still appeared shockingly formidable. Almost as if he were waiting for her to drop her guard so he could pounce on her. He was a charlatan of a lion awaiting her, his helpless gazelle.

"S-So anyways," Carly said, dispensing the thought of the proverbial lion gnawing into the soft flesh of its prey; "Where were we, where those other robots attacked us? You know, before our – road trip. Where I was hosed down." She smirked at that. Such polite wording.

"Tampa, Florida." he drawled lazily.

"That's it? No useless information about time and distance? What sort of supercomputer are you?" she teased under her breath.

"Twenty-three hours, ten minutes of traveling time; one thousand, three hundred and ninety-three point eighty-five miles between Tampa, Florida and Rockport, Massachusetts, your place of residence." he rattled off, sounding for all the world like a GPS navigation system with an attitude.

"Nice, your fellow computers would be proud." she congratulated jokingly.

"'m not a computer. Cybertronian. From Cybertron. Autonomous organism. Decepticon." he mumbled. Primus, he was tired. He blamed his lack of energy for why he was handing out verbal pamphlets of sensitive information to the human. She would find out sooner or later, he reasoned. Either by the time Soundwave requested usage of her as a prisoner of war or the Autobot's managed to liberate her. He had fifty credits bet on, with no one in particular, a less simple end for the Witwicky girl and him. Typical circumstances suggested he wouldn't be rid of her as easily as he would prefer.

"So you _are _an alien," she muttered stupidly, resting her head on her uplifted knees and wrapping her arms around the limbs. She sighed contentedly, breathing in the fresh mountain air and exhaling noisily. She searched the area around her, if just to see the sights. She could live up here, Carly decided. Once any and all forms of the insect race became extinct, she corrected herself as she frantically shooed away a moth of unnerving proportions. She ignored the growing apprehension of removing her eyes from the – Cybertronian? Decepticon? – and fought to relax. He wouldn't kill her – yet. Maybe not at all, she thought with a sliver of marginal hope.

"Decepticon…" she murmured, tasting the word cautiously."Sounds sinister. Almost like deception. Are you a deceiver?"

The shadow of a smirk hung over his usually emotionless countenance. A low buzzing filled the crisp evening atmosphere, reminding her of the racket of a dislocated channel on a television, but this strange noise fluctuated in pitches and almost sounded like—

She flinched as she realized he was muttering to himself. Was that his other worldly language? From… what had he mentioned? It was – Cybertron. That's right: Cybertron was his supposed home planet.

"What?" she asked as she assumed he was unconsciously trying to tell her something through his natural means of communication.

"Nothing." he responded tersely, catching himself and resorting to his habitual apathy once more. They sat then, separated, for more than a couple of minutes, with bitter cold and unperturbed silence between them. Another tempest ruffled her clothing and reminded her of the meager sweatshirt protecting her from the high altitude's chill. _What I would give for a glass of whiskey and a bed comforter_, she dreamt.

Carly almost relinquished her reasonable hold on the fear of upsetting the Decepticon to distract herself with conversation. Anything but this extreme laconism would aid her from the frost nipping at her toes. But she paused, yawning. Should she retire? No, she confirmed. _He might not be this friendly tomorrow. Sleeping might ruin my chance now._

"So the first morning of my official captivity, you used a human to talk to me. Care to explain how that's possible?" That seemed like a neutral enough topic.

Barricade's optics had dimmed, conserving electric units of rationed energon within his systems. "Designation: Hound. Holographic technology discovered, finalized by designated."

"Why did it disappear and reappear so much? No offense: kind of annoying."

"It is very annoying; I do not possess enough energy to sustain a working hologram." he answered, using a full sentence as opposed to his thus far choppy exerts.

"Oh." Why did he sound so frail? He spoke quietly, especially when for long periods of time. The usual spite and cruelty lacing his statements instead were intertwined with pain and misery. Two emotions she was acquainted with enough to recognize immediately. She was almost scared for him; although the notion of revenge was enticing. How would he feel in her vulnerable position? How would it feel to have his own treatment thrown back in his face?

"Well, it was a very convincing hologram." she complimented absently, studying him while he was immobile (a rare occurrence). Carly, knowing she would not receive a reaction for doing so, inspected the body that had transformed from the interceptor. She fed her gaze upon the intricate, almost unnoticeable details of his composition: nuts, bolts, screws, wires, and the larger pieces, such as the forearm plate, the pelvic piece, the thick grill, and the tires replacing the wrists. Her strange sense of humor pondered on the question of how long it took to learn all of the parts that would have adorned you if you were this creature. She withheld a hysterical giggle as, upon further inspection, her eyes began to recognize little parts that normally would have been invisible or unrecognizable. The rack and pinion made the knee; the side view mirrors helped themselves to the protective windows near his head, and – was that the air conditioning unit on his shoulder? Her guessing game ended, however, when her captor's lenses flicked over to where she was sitting and glared heatedly at her spot. She disconnected the eye contact they almost held and sunk her head low embarrassedly.

When he removed his eyes from her once more, instead basking in the apparent hatred of the sky above him, Carly stole another examination of the resting Decepticon. She involuntarily shivered at the words "_To Punish and Enslave_" inscribed upon the quarter panel creating its shoulder – but then noticed something different and of more significance. She was surprised it didn't register when she had been silently quipping at his side view mirror.

"What happened?" she asked suddenly, motioning towards the right side of his body. He turned in time to see her point and ran diagnostics. Nothing _happened_; the stupid creature. His systems, albeit weakly, were functioning unhindered for both halves of his body.

"I mean to that wing – door – whatever; it-it broke." Carly clarified awkwardly.

He reached up and felt the right window pane bolted to the exterior plating of his back; a prime position to easily reach his door panels during his transformation sequence. The glass was shattered, and decidedly missing, from that window.

"It broke." He repeated in unconcealed surprise as he groped the fragile part. How did he not notice that during their trip from Florida?

"Well no shit," Carly murmured with a small chuckle, "I was wondering how."

He remained silent; still spooked the seemingly insignificant peculiarity had escaped regular bodily scans and mending's. He redirected a pool of nano repair modulators to his rightmost shoulder and flinched as pain sensors flared to life as they swept towards the damage. But what had nullified this section of his body? Rarely was he unable to make sense of any form of mishap: but Barricade was rightfully baffled with this turn of events.

"Well, I just thought it was funny considering I have a cut on my right cheek. We match." She exclaimed with a nervous laugh. He wasn't paying attention, his focus diverted to his window. "Hey, don't worry about it," she proposed, as if he was upset about the cosmetic aspect of the harm done, "You're still the sexiest Mustang I know."

"Saleen," he corrected distractedly, flipping his upper arm so the underside of it flashed the _Saleen _insignia printed in bolt lettering there.

"Better looking than the red Honda that tried to eat me." she concluded with a secretive roll of her eyes. The guy couldn't just take a compliment, could he? Oh no, first he had to prove her wrong about a simplistic detail. He couldn't just have pretended to be a Ford for a few seconds in order to spew out a "Thanks, buddy ol' pal ol' friend."

She mentally shrugged. Oh well. "I hope you're all right."

He flinched at this sincere declaration. He glanced at her when she looked away, thoroughly confused. Why would she inquire – even pretend to care – for his health? A trick or hoax, he decided emotionlessly. The Witwicky girl was trying to drag him into a false sense of well-being. The female would no doubt jump on any opportunity concerning his death and the bringing about of it. He didn't personally feel this way, but Decepticon rationality preceded 'feelings'.

Barricade found himself enraged, angry anxiety fueled by his own paranoia after years of betrayal and betraying. He knew how the system worked. He knew how to lead along prey with false hope for companionship. He refused to become a victim to deception he had mastered after centuries of practice.

Carly was completely oblivious to the emotional change for worse occurring within the Decepticon, towards her and their (what she deemed) improving relationship. So when he didn't respond and his claw had dropped to quit tinkering with his damaged window, she took this as a signal to continue. "So you mentioned Cybertron. Where exactly is—"

"Must I be interrogated for the rest of this lunar cycle?" he barked harshly. "Let me rest."

Her head snapped upward, eyes wide and lips parted in amazement, at the harsh tone. Where had his vulnerable state vanished to?

Unexplainably hurt by his sudden distrust of her, Carly managed to find her way to a standing position and take a step towards him, troubled.

"Let me rest, fleshling!" he demanded sharply as she stepped prudently around the dying fire and the distance between the pair waned.

"A while ago I kept telling you to kill me: so I don't think you deserve my mercy either." she deadpanned. He snarled wordlessly, and nearly succeeding in rolling over to permanently dislodge chances of conversation.

"Wait!" Carly cried, reaching out and grasping onto the side of his faceplate. Both of them froze at the contact, both shocked that she would dare touch one so much larger and so much more intimidating.

She flung her hand back and away, raising both her palms into the air as if preparing for arrest.

"What?" he growled, his faceplate inching closer as he made sure his optics connected with her wide irises.

"I – I wanted to know your name." she said, looking him dead in the lens. Was it funny that whenever she focused on his face now, all she saw were his eyes? When he had first shown himself and all his gigantic glory days ago, during that fateful meeting in Massachusetts, every other feature had taken significance over the two – _wait, four! – _glowing orbs adorning his countenance. The top of the alien head with its pointed crescent, tipping a thick, curved band of metal that gave him an eternally angry expression. Above his eyes, two slightly misplaced ridges that seemed to represent eyebrows, though must have been for show as they rarely manufactured anything but a twitch. The fangs, which had understandably scared her witless. Thin, but long, and accented by a V-shaped bar on each side of his face that started at the bridge of its nasal ridge and came to an end where the devouring hole began. His mouth was large enough to gobble her up in two bites, and being digested by the rows of knives wasn't an inviting thought. He had the sort of face that, upon a second or third or fourth look, one would find something new and interesting to examine. But when in such close quarters with him, Carly discovered that his eyes were the most interesting. Maybe it was because of the technological aspect of their advanced beams. Or maybe it was because Carly found emotion, something that should have been absent, behind the red lens'.

He was hiding something behind those eyes, she confirmed.

"In your native tongue, the title you call a 'name' is unpronounceable." he finally replied – cold, detached – hiding behind his hostility as she had suspected.

"But you speak English," she pointed out, "And you said earlier that someone named "Hound" created holograms. So they must call you something here."

He had to give her the tiniest amount of acclaim for remembering details that should have been unimportant, yet had been noticed, anyways."What makes you so certain others of my kind are here?" he growled softly.

"Why else would I be important if not for the purpose of a sort of interaction amongst – your people?" she responded diplomatically, belittling herself for the sake of information.

"Perhaps I am nameless. Perhaps I am not so important as to have a distinguished title."

"If you're going to turn into a blabbering ball of angst," she said with a large smile, her eyes bright and her teeth gleaming, "Then I'll sing again. And damn it, I will try to hit a high note. Now come on. Everyone has a name."

Once again, she had failed to amuse the Decepticon. When all she was rewarded with was a vulgar glare, demonstrating his resolute abhorrence for her presence, she understood. She nodded with pursed lips and crossed her arms protectively across her chest, her eyes downcast as she went and returned to her side of the fire.

Her determination and humility was, after all, acknowledged.

"Come here." he demanded.

She lurched backwards to see his bright crimson eyes attached to her form. "What?" she questioned, having not heard him clearly over the sudden crackle of flame snarling from its home amongst the ashes of charred wood.

He grunted as he slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, hunching forward so only a few feet separated their heights. She didn't think he meant to do this – he just looked too sore to pull himself upright. She felt good knowing he was suffering a bit. Not quite as she had, but every ounce of retribution helped her recovery. Sparks and bits of ash and floating particles of soot framed the Decepticon's faceplate as he leaned forward, one claw clutching the ground for support. His grotesque features were enhanced by the faded glow of the fire.

"Barricade," he answered with as much irk as he could muster – which wasn't much. His small tantrum had drained him emotionally. Barricade was tired, and he did not attempt to comfort himself by thinking it was not beginning to show. The furious heat he usually permeated took effort, effort he could not afford to expel on trivial things such as emotional appearances. She was not requesting dire facts. Caroline had simply asked him his name. Not much she could do with it, he figured.

But his gesture proved more important than he could imagine. Carly did not smile, or bounce with joy, or graciously thank him for such presented kindness. She stood, lips pursed, arms crossed. But her eyes betrayed her happiness. They glittered excitedly in the dim light of the fire. Barricade decided he didn't like that strange look she was giving him.

Unanticipated, something changed in the atmosphere. It wasn't Barricade and Carly's feelings towards one another. The Saleen went rigid as he tasted static growing thick in the area.

As soon as he heard the familiar whirring of registering electrical charges and the concentration of that power into dual sources, Barricade knew Carly was no longer going to be his main source of vexation.

Pale light flooded through the slim openings of the thick wood to his back, the only colorful warning the Decepticon and the Witwicky girl received before a glowing mass of furious energy thundered from the state's beloved trees and knocked full speed into Barricade. He only caught a glimpse of his opponent's optics, but the sheer detestation and loathing he saw there told him this was no ordinary Autobot foe.

There was a frantic struggle to put a halt to their conjoined bodies as both acknowledged they were quickly, and steadily, rolling downhill and towards the river that awaited beneath. Barricade struck a free fist into the grass, his claws digging into the loose dirt to steady himself as the Buggati that had confronted him slid a few meters farther before balancing on the slope.

Jolt.


End file.
